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UBRAfet 

NMMinrto 

OUJFOHNIA 
SAN  Oli*0 


1-    V  i  i 


POEMS  OF  THOMAS   CAMPBELL 


:IRCA    1802.       AET    24 


POEMS 

OF 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL 

SELECTED   AND   ARRANGED   BY 

LEWIS     CAMPBELL 


HonBon 
MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LIMITED 

NEW   YORK  :    THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1904 


TO   MY   FAR-OFF  COUSINS 
'  FOUND   TOO   LATE  ' 

T.  B.  C,  M.  G.  B.,  E.  C.  M.  C.,  L.  F.  K.  H.,  G.  M. 

SURVIVING    RELATIVES  OF  THOMAS   CAMPBELL 

THIS   SELECTION    FROM    HIS    POEMS 

IS   GRATEFULLY   INSCRIBED 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION xiii 


EARLY   POEMS 

Translation  from  Euripides,  Medea,  Lines  190-203  ...  3 

From  the  same  Tragedy,  Paraphrase  of  Lines  824-845     .         .  4 

Love  and  Madness  :  An  Elegy 5 

The  Harper 8 

The  Wounded  Hussar 9 

Gilderoy 10 


THE   PLEASURES  OF   HOPE 

Part  the  First 15 

Part  the  Second 33 


POEMS   1800-1808 

Caroline,  Part  I 51 

Caroline,  Part  II — To  the  Evening  Star  .....  52 

Ode  to  Winter 54 

Lines  on  leaving  a  Scene  in  Bavaria          .....  56 

Lines  on  revisiting  Cathcart 61 

The  Beech  Tree's  Petition 62 

Lines  written  on  visiting  a  Scene  in  Argyleshire      ...  63 


x  CONTENTS 

POEMS    1800-1808— continued 

I-AGE 

Exile  of  Erin 64 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  :  A  Naval  Ode 66 

Hohenlinden 67 

LochicTs  Warning 69 

Glenara 72 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 73 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 75 

Stanzas  on  the  Threatened  Invasion,  1803        ....  78 

The  Soldier's  Dream 79 

Stanzas  to  Painting So 


GERTRUDE    OF    WYOMING, 
A   PENNSYLVANIAN  TALE 

Advertisement 84 

Part  I 85 

Part  II 94 

Part  III 103 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD;    OR  "THE   FLOWER 

OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING"       .        .  117 

POEMS,   1809-1836 
LYRICS 

Held  Flowers 131 

To  the  Rainbow 132 

Song — To  the  Evening  Star 134 

A  Dream 135 

The  Last  Man 137 

Absence 140 

Hallowed  Ground 141 

Lines  on  a  Picture  of  a  Girl  in  the  Attitude  of  Prayer      .         .  144 

Song — "  When  Napoleon  was  flying "  .         .        .         .  146 

Farewell  to  Love 146 

Song — "  Men  of  England  " 147 

Lines  on  the  Camp  Hill,  near  Hastings 1 49 


CONTENTS  xl 


BALLADS  AND  ROMANCES 

rAGB 

Reullura 153 

The  Turkish  I.ady 159 

Earl  March 160 

Adelgitha 161 

The  Ritter  Bann 162 

The  Brave  Roland 168 

The  Spectre  Boat :  A  Ballad 169 


TRANSLATIONS 

Martial  Elegy  (from  the  Greek  of  Tyrtaeus)     .         .         .         .173 

Song  of  Hybrias  the  Cretan 174 

Fragment  (from  the  Greek  of  Alcman) 175 


IN  BLANK  VERSE 

Lines  on  the  View  from  St.  Leonards        .....       179 
The  Dead  Eagle  (written  at  Oran) 183 


IN  THE  CAUSE  OF  FREEDOM 

The  Death-boat  of  Heligoland 189 

Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  the  Spanish  Patriots  latest  killed 

in  resisting  the  Regency  and  the  Duke  of  Angouleme       .  190 

Stanzas  on  the  Battle  of  Navarino •  192 

Ode  to  the  Germans 194 

The  Power  of  Russia 195 


OCCASIONAL  AND  PERSONAL 

Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Burns     .......  201 

Valedictory  Stanzas  to  J.  P.  Kemble,  Esq.,  composed  for  a 

Public  Meeting  held  June  1817  ......  204 

Lines  on  revisiting  a  Scottish  River 207 

Lines  on  receiving  a  Seal  with  the  Campbell  Crest,  from 

K.  M ,  before  her  Marriage 208 

Lines  to  Edward  Lytton  Bulwer  on  the  Birth  of  his  Child  .  210 

Lines  to  Julia  M .  Sent  with  a  Copy  of  the  Author's  Poems  211 

A  Thought  suggested  by  the  New  Year 211 

b 


CONTENTS 


LIGHTER  LYRICS  PAGE 

Song— "My  Mind  is  my  Kingdom" 215 

Song—"  Drink  Ye  to  Her  that  Each  loves  best"     .        .        .  215 

Song — "  Oh,  how  hard  it  is  to  find  " 216 

Song — "  Withdraw  not  yet  those  Lips  and  Fingers  "       .        .  216 
Song— "  When  Love  came  first  to  Earth  "        .        .        .        .217 

Song — ; 'To  Love  in  my  Heart " 217 

Scnex's  Soliloquy  on  his  Youthful  Idol 218 

Song — "  How  Delicious  is  the  Winning  "         ....  219 

Margaret  and  Dora  .........  220 


LATEST   POEMS,    1837-18.41 

Cora  Linn,  or  the  Falls  of  the  Clyde,  written  on  revisiting 

it  in  1837 223 

Napoleon  and  the  British  Sailor 224 

Benlomond 227 

The  Child  and  Hind 227 

On  getting  Home  the  Portrait  of  a  Female  Child  Six  Years 

old,  painted  by  Eugenio  Latilla  .....  232 

The  Parrot  of  Mull ;  A  Domestic  Anecdote  ....  234 

Song  of  the  Colonists  departing  from  New  Zealand  .  .  235 

Moonlight 236 

Chaucer  and  Windsor 238 

Lines  suggested  by  the  Statue  of  Arnold  von  Winkelried, 

Stanz-Unterwalden 238 

To  a  Young  Lady  who  asked  me  to  write  something  original 

for  her  Album 239 

Lines  on  my  new  Child-Sweetheart 239 

To  the  Same — A  new  Poem  on  my  Youngest  Sweetheart  .  24 1 
The  Launch  of  a  First-rate,  written  on  witnessing  the 

Spectacle 242 

To  my  Niece,  Mary  Campbell .......  244 


INTRODUCTION 


Even  I  ... 

Was  reckoned,  a  considerable  time, 

The  grand  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  rhyme. 

Sir  Walter  reigned  before  me ;  Moore  and  Campbell 
Before  and  after. 

BYRON  in  Don  Juan,  Canto  xi. 

OBLIVION  is  the  Nemesis  of  over- praise.  Poets  once 
in  all  men's  mouths  "suffer  not  thinking  on."  Yet 
time  may  rescue  from  forgetfulness  some  morsels  that 
have  the  quality  of  not  perishing.  Thomson's  Seasons 
may  still  find  readers,  while  his  Sophonisba  and  his 
l^ancred  (made  popular  by  Garrick)  have  joined  the 
majority  of  plays.  But  Waller,  heralded  by  Dryden, 
and  Shenstone,  the  admired  of  Burns — -who  thinks  of 
reading  them  to-day  ?  This  reflection  is  inevitable  for 
one  who  undertakes  to  recommend  a  selection  from 
Thomas  Campbell's  poems  in  the  twentieth  century  ; 
although  not  sixty  years  ago  his  countrymen  thought 
him  worthy  of  a  public  funeral,  a  grave  in  Poets'  Corner, 
and  a  statue  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when 
Burns  had  been  dead  two  years,  and  Cowper  was  dying, 
two  volumes  of  poetry  claimed  the  attention  of  British 
xiii 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

readers  ;  one  published  in  Bristol,  and  one  in  Edinburgh : 
The  Lyrical  Ballads  (September  1798)  and  The  Pleasures 
of  Hope  (April  1799).  The  latter  was  received  with 
acclamation,  the  former  with  derision.  And  yet,  if  one 
hundred  and  five  years  are  sufficient  witnesses,  it  was  with 
the  Bristol  volume  that  the  promise  of  the  future  lay. 

It  was  unfortunate  for  Campbell  that  when  his 
ambition  was  roused  to  the  production  of  a  serious  poem 
the  prevailing  taste  should  have  induced  him  to  adopt 
a  form  so  soon  to  be  discredited.  The  star  of  Pope  still 
held  the  meridian,  while  that  of  Wordsworth  was  hardly 
visible  above  the  horizon  ;  and  in  consequence  of  some 
serio-comic  pieces  which  he  wrote  at  College,  young 
Campbell  had  been  dubbed  by  his  companions  "the 
Pope  of  Glasgow." 

His  essentially  lyric  genius  was  thus  diverted  into  an 
alien  channel. 

His  native  gift  of  melodious  speech  had  been  cultivated 
from  boyhood  through  the  assimilation  of  classical  poetry, 
Latin,  Greek,  and  English,  and  through  the  practice  of 
translation  in  verse.  But  the  first  outburst  of  an  original 
poetic  vein  in  him  came  during  the  two  summers  which 
he  spent  in  the  West  Highlands  and  in  the  Island  of 
Mull.  The  communion  with  Nature,  begun  in  childhood, 
was  then  revived  and  greatly  enlarged,  and  those  were 
the  years  that  opened  for  him 

"  The  promise  of  the  golden  hours, 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers." 

Another  and  a  nobler  passion  had  a  yet  stronger  hold 
on  him — the  love  of  freedom  and  hatred  of  oppression. 
While  still  a  young  student  he  had  walked  to  Edinburgh 
with  a  companion  to  witness  the  trial  of  Muir  and  Gerald 
for  high  treason,  and  had  heard  them  condemned  on 
what  appeared  to  him  insufficient  evidence.  From  that 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

hour  he  was  devoted  to  the  cause  of  Liberty.  Milder 
ardours  were  eclipsed  in  the  manly  resolution  that 
breathes  in  the  lines — 

"^Shame  to  the  coward  thought  that  e'er  betrayed 
The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade  ! " 

Here,  then,  was  a  true  poet,  fully  answering  to 
Tennyson's  description  : — 

"  Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. " 

And  he  was  expected  to  cast  his  warm  imaginings  and 
fervid  thoughts  into  the  mould  of  the  Essay  on  Man. 
The  result  was  a  series  of  fine  passages,  with  here  and 
there  an  unforgettable  line.  But  the  poem  as  a  whole 
is  rather  tacked  together  than  created.  Campbell  had 
not  the  architectonic  gift.  But  to  which  poet  of  the 
early  nineteenth  century  was  it  really  given  ?  Even  in 
wandering  through  Wordsworth's  great  "cathedral"  we 
linger  in  the  side  chapels  to  worship  phantoms  of  delight 
and  reverend  forms,  paternal  or  pathetic,  but  are  apt 
to  lose  ourselves  in  the  vast  unlighted  spaces  of  the  main 
building. 

The  youth  had  been  at  a  loss  for  a  profession. 
Divinity  was  unattractive,  Medicine  repellent,  and  the 
Law  was  impossible  without  capital,  which  he  could  not 
command  in  consequence  of  his  father's  losses  through 
the  American  War.  Private  tuition,  the  usual  resource 
of  the  Scottish  student,  he  had  never  contemplated  as 
an  employment  for  a  lifetime.  Now  his  path  was  clearly 
marked  towards  a  literary  career.  In  the  first  flush  of 
his  success  he  made  some  engagements  with  Edinburgh 
publishers  and  started  on  a  continental  tour.  Even  the 
brittle  peace  of  Amiens  was  not  yet,  and  plans  for  foreign 
travel  had  to  reckon  with  war.  He  was  disappointed  in 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

his  hope  of  making  personal  acquaintance  with  Wieland 
and  Burger,  perhaps  also  with  Schiller  and  Goethe ;  and 
after  a  long  pause  at  Hamburg  he  took  refuge  with  a 
college  of  Scotch  monks  at  Ratisbon.  From  the  walls 
of  that  city  he  witnessed  a  fierce  encounter  between 
French  and  Austrian  troops,  and  saw  the  battlefield  after 
the  engagement — not  comforted  by  Red  Cross  ambulances. 
To  the  excitement  and  the  horror  of  that  twofold  sight 
we  owe  the  lyrics  of  Hohenlinden  and  the  Soldier's 
Dream.  (Though  he  visited  the  valley  of  the  Iser,  he 
was  not  present  at  the  battle  of  which  he  wrote.) 

At  Hamburg,  and  afterwards  at  Altona,  then  a 
Danish  town,  he  consorted  with  some  of  the  "  men  of 
"98,"  especially  one  Antony  Macan,  with  whom  he  used 
to  walk  along  the  banks  of  the  Elbe.  Theuce  came  the 
inspiration  for  the  Exile  of  Erin,  and,  to  judge  from 
internal  evidence,  also  for  another  poem,  published  long 
afterwards,  which  has  attracted  less  attention  than  it 
deserves.  The  Death -Boat  of  Heligoland,  based  on 
a  Scandinavian  legend,  and  more  vituperative  than  is 
usual  with  Campbell  except  in  defence  of  Poland,  may 
compare  favourably  in  poetic  fire  and  verve  with  other 
lampoons  of  revolutionary  poets  on  Tory  administration. 
Once  more,  the  time  he  spent  in  Denmark  and  the 
outbreak  of  the  war  which  sent  him  home  have  much  to 
do  with  the  production  shortly  after  this  of  Ye  Mariners 
of  England  and  The  Battle  of  (he  Baltic.  Residence 
abroad  had  added  a  glow  of  patriotism  to  the  poetic 
stimuli  of  love  and  liberty.  These  lyrics,  which  are 
now  reckoned  amongst  his  titles  to  fame,  probably 
appeared  to  him  at  the  time  only  as  sparks  from  his 
anvil.  For  he  was  meditating  two  laborious  works, 
one  dull  but  remunerative — a  continuation  of  Hume's 
and  Smollett's  history ;  the  other  an  ambitious  and 
somewhat  perilous  venture,  an  heroic  poem  to  be  entitled 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

The  Queen  of  the  North.  This  was  to  have  been  a 
sort  of  epic  of  Scottish  history,  revolving  round  the  praise 
of  Edinburgh  ;  but,  as  the  sequel  proved,  the  task  was 
beyond  his  powers.  His  reading  in  preparation  for  the 
grand  attempt  may,  however,  have  suggested  to  him  the 
subject  of  LochieTs  Warning. 

He  also  made  a  serious  study  of  German  poetry,  and 
even  spent  three  months  over  the  philosophy  of  Kant. 
But  the  namesake  of  Dr.  Thomas  Reid,  the  Scottish 
philosopher  of  Common  Sense — who  christened  him,  and 
(with  the  author  of  The  Wealth  of  Nations]  was  his  father's 
friend — could  not  be  impressed  as  Coleridge  was  by  the 
new  metaphysic.  On  the  other  hand,  the  romantic  move- 
ment in  German  poetry  made  an  impression  which  may 
be  traced  in  some  of  his  subsequent  work. 

Returning  in  a  vessel  bound  for  Leith,  but  chased 
into  Yarmouth  by  a  Danish  privateer,  he  made  his  first 
visit  to  London  ;  but  was  soon  recalled  to  Edinburgh 
in  consequence  of  his  father's  death.  Suspected  of 
seditious  tendencies,  he  succeeded  in  clearing  himself. 
Ye  Mariners  had  by  this  time  been  written,  and  was 
published  shortly  afterwards  in  the  Morning  Chronicle 
under  the  following  title:  "  Alteration  of  the  old  ballad 
'  Ye  Gentlemen  of  England,'  composed  in  prospect  of 
the  commencement  of  a  Russian  War. " 

Early  in  1803  he  left  the  Northern  metropolis  for  the 
Southern  capital.  This  bold  step  was  partly  due  to  the 
encouragement  of  Lord  Minto,  the  only  patron  Campbell 
ever  knew.  It  was  a  relationship  which  he  could  not 
bear  for  long.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  always  his  kind  and 
generous  friend,  wrote  of  this  long  afterwards  in  the 
famous  Journal : — 

"  Tom  Campbell  lived  at  Minto.  But  it  was  in  a  state  of  depend- 
ence which  he  brooked  very  ill.  He  was  kindly  treated,  but  would 
not  see  it  in  the  right  view,  and  suspected  slights  and  so  on,  where 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

no  such  thing  was  meant.  There  was  ...  a  kind  of  waywardness 
and  irritability  about  Tom  that  must  have  made  a  man  of  his  genius 
truly  unhappy." 

The  fierce  sensitiveness  which  he  showed  in  his  quarrel 
with  Leyden  was  still  untamed  in  him.  (See  also  Beattie's 
Life,  vol.  i.  p.  247.) 

In  London  he  found  the  employment  he  looked  for 
and  made  new  friends.  He  was  kindly  received  at 
Holland  House,  and  the  Whig  notabilities  who  gathered 
there  had  tact  enough  to  bring  out  his  social  gifts  with- 
out jarring  upon  his  na'ive  independence. 

After  some  months  of  restless  bachelorhood  he  married 
his  cousin,  Matilda  Sinclair,  on  loth  September  1803. 
The  seven  years  that  followed,  although  chequered  with 
illness  and  exhausting  work,  were  the  happiest  of  his 
life.  After  twelve  months  in  Pimlico  he  settled  with  his 
wife  at  Sydenham,  then  a  country  village,  where  the 
birth  of  two  boys,  in  both  of  whom,  especially  the 
younger,  Alison,  he  took  all  a  father's  pride,  and  the 
warm  friendship  of  congenial  neighbours,  completed 
the  environment  of  a  peaceful  English  home.  In  1809 
he  ventured  again  before  the  public  with  Gertrude  of 
IVyoming,  Ye  Mariners,  Glenara,  The  Battle  of  the 
Baltic,  Lochicl,  Hohenlinden,  and  Lord  Ulliris 
Daughter,  and  in  a  new  edition  early  in  1810  he  added 
a  beautiful  poem  produced  in  the  interim,  O'Connor's 
Child. 

Gertrude  of  Wyoming  is  a  pastoral  poem  of  an 
original  cast  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  handled  not  heroic- 
ally as  by  Spenser,  but  in  a  quieter  vein,  more  resembling 
the  manner  of  Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence.  The 
subject,  an  incident  in  the  American  War,  seems  to  have 
harmonized  with  some  suggestion  from  a  German  tale, 
and  is  more  or  less  akin  to  such  romances  as  St.  Pierre's 
Paul  and  Virginia  or  Chateaubriand's  Atala,  which  are 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

conceived  in  the  spirit  of  Rousseau.  But  the  substance 
of  the  work  is  Campbell's  own.  His  sympathy  with 
American  independence,  his  hatred  of  oppression  and 
impatience  of  the  burden  of  conventionalisms,  and  his 
abhorrence  of  a  cruel  criminal  code,  combine  with  an 
intense  appreciation  of  all  that  is  genuinely  human, 
whether  in  civilised  or  uncivilised  life,  to  create  an  atmo- 
sphere of  singular  purity  and  charm.  The  story  is  slightly 
sketched,  and  there  is  little  of  realistic  detail,  but  the 
contrast  between  the  life  of  the  affections  abstracted  from 
all  that  can  degrade  or  vulgarise,  and  the  solitary  strength 
of  the  "Stoic  of  the  woods,  a  man  without  a  tear,"  is 
drawn  with  equal  delicacy  and  firmness. 

His  Muse  was  still  in  her  ascendant,  and  it  is  time 
to  take  stock  of  his  achievement  so  far.  No  friend,  how- 
ever daring,  could  venture  nowadays  to  endorse  the  high 
encomiums  of  Scott  and  Goethe,  although  the  present 
writer  once  heard  Robert  Browning— most  high-hearted 
of  poets,  most  chivalrous  of  men — speak  of  Campbell  as 
"  a  great  man."  He  is  something  less  than  great,  but  he 
has  elements  of  greatness. 

That  poems  so  different  in  kind  as  The  Pleasures 
of  Hope  and  Gertrude  should  have  been  produced 
within  ten  years,  each  having  its  distinct  and  incom- 
municable flavour  and  cachet,  is  of  itself  a  remarkable 
proof  of  versatility.  And,  to  speak  more  generally,  the 
range  of  the  few  poems  already  named  is  not  a  narrow 
one.  But  there  is  more  to  say. 

(i)  His  work  has  the  ring  of  absolute  sincerity. 
There  is  heart  in  it.  A  native  generosity  breathes  in 
every  line,  giving  assurance  of  "that  primal  sympathy 
which,  having  been,  must  ever  be."  It  cannot  be  said 
of  him  that  "his  soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart." 
1  le  was  not  self-centred  or  self-sufficing,  nor  in  any  high 
degree  self-conscious,  nor  largely  contemplative.  He 


xx "  INTRODUCTION 

was  nothing  if  not  a  social  being.  To  that  he  owed  much 
of  his  strength  and  weakness.  His  was  not  the  poetry 
of  self-pity,  nor  could  he  have  filled  huge  canvases,  as 
Byron  did,  with  the  Brocken-like  image  of  his  own 
magnified  personality.  His  interest  was  in  his  brothers 
and  sisters  of  mankind.  Their  joys  and  sorrows,  their 
aspirations  and  their  wrongs,  alone  gave  inspiration  to 
his  verse. 

(2)  He  is  a  learned  poet.  Sydney  Smith  observed 
of  him,  "  What  a  vast  field  of  literature  that  man's  mind 
has  rolled  over "  ;  and  Charles  James  Fox,  who  was  no 
mean  scholar,  when  introduced  to  him  at  Holland  House, 
said  afterwards,  "  I  like  Campbell,  he  is  so  right  about 
Virgil."  He  had  absorbed  the  marrow  of  Greek  poetry 
as  a  youth  at  Glasgow,  and  in  later  life  "  a  Homer  and  a 
salt  herring"  were  indispensable  to  his  comfort  at  break- 
fast-time. How  many  young  Grecians  of  to-day,  with 
the  help  of  a  century  of  commentaries,  could  improve 
on  the  translation  of  Aesch.  Cho.  lines  22-69,  which  he 
wrote  in  his  seventeenth  year  ? 

"  Heard  ye  wild  Horror's  hair-erecting  scream 
Re-echo  dismal,  from  his  distant  cell? 
Heard  ye  the  spirit  of  the  nightly  dream 
Shriek  to  the  solemn  hour  a  long  resounding  yell  ?  " 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  afflatus  which  came  over  him 
in  consequence  of  his  friend  Hamilton  Paul's  suggestion 
of  The  Pleasures  of  Hope,  he  had  intended  to  bring 
out  an  edition  of  Greek  plays  which  might  have  landed 
him  in  a  Professorship,  possibly  at  St.  Andrews  !  The 
classical  texts  printed  by  the  brothers  Foulis,  now 
treasures  of  the  bibliophile,  were  then  accessible  in 
Glasgow  at  the  fountain-head.  In  later  years  he  learned 
Spanish  as  well  as  Italian,  and  attempted  Arabic.  He 
tried  no  direct  imitation  of  classical  forms,  no  Pindaric 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

odes,  no  "barbarous  experiments,"  but  he  had  learned 
from  his  Greek  masters  the  secret  of  uniting  brevity  with 
clearness  and  subtlety  with  simplicity. 

He  was  an  excellent  critic,  especially  of  his  own 
work.  He  wrote  much  which  never  saw  the  light.  Dr. 
Beattie,  in  some  MS.  notes  which  have  been  confided 
to  me,  enumerates  forty-six  unpublished  pieces,  from 
some  of  which  he  has  quoted  in  the  Life.  Scott 
characteristically  complained  that  Campbell  was  "a 
great  corrector "  ;  and  Jeffrey  told  him  that  his  faults 
were  those  of  over-finishing  and  not  of  negligence  ;  but 
in  some  cases,  certainly,  he  corrected  with  good  effect. 
There  is  an  instructive  difference  between  the  first  sketch 
of  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,  shown  to  Scott  in  a  letter 
of  27th  March  1805,  and  the  finished  piece  as  published 
in  1809.  Twenty-seven  stanzas  of  six  lines  each  have 
been  condensed  into  eight  stanzas  of  nine.  The  change 
of  form  may  be  indicated  as  in  the  following  scheme — 
the  figures  denoting  the  number  of  accents  in  each  line, 
and  the  brackets  marking  the  lines  that  rhyme  together  : — 

Poem  of  1809. 


All  the  more  striking  expressions  are  retained  ;  most 
of  what  was  weak,  and  there  was  much,  has  been  ejected, 
and  the  introduction  of  the  central  long  line  (/cteo-ySos) 
to  balance  the  concluding  short  one  (eV^Sos)  is  a  stroke  of 
rhythmical  skill  of  which  Sophocles  would  have  approved. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

In  the  second  stanza,  lines  i  and  3  fail  to  rhyme.  This 
is  hardly  observed,  and  the  poet  showed  good  judgment 
in  not  tinkering  a  fine  phrase  to  remedy  a  trivial  flaw 
(cp.  Lycidas,  lines  i,  15,  22,  51). 

The  syncope  or  antispastic  turn  in  the  long  line 

"And  her  arms  along  the  dee]5  proudly  shone," 
"Their  shots  along  the  deep"  slowly  boom," 

has  a  specially  beautiful  effect. 

Yet  in  the  poem  thus  condensed  there  is  some  loss 
of  vividness  and  distinctness.  Here,  for  example,  are 
five  of  the  original  verses — 

"  Another  noble  fleet 
Of  their  line 

Rode  out,  but  these  were  nought 
To  the  batteries  which  they  brought, 
Like  leviathans  afloat 
In  the  brine. 

"  It  was  ten  of  Thursday  morn 
By  the  chime, 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time, 

"  Ere  a  first  and  fatal  round 
Shook  the  flood  ; 
Every  Dane  looked  out  that  day, 
Like  the  red  wolf  on  his  prey, 
As  he  swore  his  flag  to  sway 
O'er  our  blood. 

"  Not  such  a  mind  possessed 
England's  tar ; 
'Twas  the  love  of  noble  game 
Set  his  oaken  heart  on  flame, 
For  to  him  'twas  all  the  same 
Sport  and  war. 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

"  All  hands  and  eyes  on  watch 
As  they  keep ; 

By  their  motion  light  as  wings, 
By  each  step  that  haughty  springs, 
You  might  know  them  for  the  kings 
Of  the  deep  !" 

The  reader  is  brought  nearer  to  the  actual  event ; 
and  the  use  of  the  word  "bulwarks,"  which  has  been 
criticized,  is  explained  as  referring  to  the  floating  batteries, 
which  might  well  recall  Milton's  "  Leviathan,"  rather 
than  to  the  ship's  broadsides. 

In  the  case  of  other  poems  his  corrections  are 
not  always  equally  happy.  In  Gertrude,  for  example, 
Part  II.,  stanza  xii.,  the  first  edition  had 

"  For,  save  her  presence,  not  an  ear  had  heard 
The  stock-dove  plaining  through  its  gloom  profound  ; 
Or  winglet  of  the  fairy  humming-bird, 
Like  atoms  of  the  rainbow  fluttering  round." — 

Some  friendly  critic  seems  to  have  observed  that  "atoms 
of  the  rainbow"  are  seen,  not  heard.  But  when,  to 
avoid  this  trivial  incoherence,  the  poet  wrote 

"  And  nought  within  the  grove  was  seen  or  heard 
But  stock-doves  plaining  through  its  gloom  profound," 

the  disappearance  of  the  solitary  figure  of  Gertrude, 
although  momentary,  obliterated  a  beautiful  touch. 

(3)  Campbell  is  a  poet  of  the  centre.  If  he  betrayed 
some  personal  waywardness,  his  muse  was  not  wayward, 
and  is  apt,  therefore,  to  be  censured  as  commonplace. 
But  that  is  an  erroneous  notion.  Extravagance  and 
oddity  may  win  applause  more  readily,  but  the  poetry 
which  lasts  is  that  which  comes  sweetly  off  from  Nature 
and  goes  straight  from  the  heart  to  the  heart.  The 
best  work  of  Campbell  will  stand  this  test,  and  he  is 
not  to  be  disparaged  as  a  poet  because,  in  spite  of 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

constitutional  susceptibilities,  he  remained  true  not  only 
to  the  cause  of  liberty  and  humanity,  but  also  "to  the 
kindred  points  of  heaven  and  home '' — a  good  son  and 
brother,  a  faithful  friend,  an  affectionate  husband,  a 
most  tender  father. 

In  the  laudatory  and  yet  discriminating  notice  with 
which  the  Edinburgh  Review  welcomed  Gertrude  of 
Wyoming,  it  was  truly  observed  that  the  author  was 
"a  poet  of  greater  promise  than  performance,"  and  the 
youthful  Byron,  in  exempting  Scott,  Rogers,  Crabbe, 
and  Campbell  from  his  castigation  of  English  bards  and 
Scotch  reviewers,  had  thus  apostrophized  the  last-named 
"  bard  " :— 

"  Come  forth,  O  Campbell !  give  thy  talents  scope  ; 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope?" 

It  remains  to  account  for  the  undoubted  fact  that  after 
so  brilliant  an  opening  this  poet  produced  so  little,  and 
during  the  last  thirty  years  of  life  failed  adequately  to 
justify  his  early  reputation. 

(i)  One  obvious  cause  was  his  absorption  in  journalism 
and  in  literary  tasks,  that  brought  him  profit  but  no 
renown.  Though  fitful  in  such  work,  he  certainly  was 
not  idle.  In  his  letters  he  speaks  of  working  from  four 
to  six  hours  at  a  stretch,  and  as  much  as  ten  or  twelve 
hours  a  day.  One  cannot  labour  like  that  over  prosaic 
themes  and  hope  to  keep  the  freshness  of  poetic  inspira- 
tion. As  Campbell  himself  has  said  of  Smollett's  later 
years — 

He  seems  to  have  felt  that  he  could  depend  for  subsistence  more 
securely  on  works  of  industry  than  originality,  and  he  engaged  in 
voluntary  drudgeries,  which  added  nothing  to  his  fame,  whilst  they 
made  inroads  on  his  health  and  equanimity. 

This    remark    occurs    in    the    only    prose   work    which 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

Campbell  undertook  spontaneously,  the  series  of  lives 
prefixed  to  his  selection  from  the  English  poets.  Tne 
little  volume  in  which  these  morsels  are  collected  is 
still  worth  reading ;  see  especially  the  lives  of  Gray, 
Akenside,  and  Cowper.  Some  writers  of  introductions 
to  more  recent  anthologies  might  have  done  well  to 
consult  them. 

(2)  Another  hindrance  to  original  work  and  mental 
growth  was  the  society  of  London.  Campbell  was  before 
everything,  as  I  have  said,  a  social  being.  He  was  witty 
and  brilliant  in  conversation,  and  he  was  welcomed  every- 
where. The  evenings  at  Holland  House  may  have  been 
more  stimulating  than  distracting  ;  but  certain  journalistic 
soirees  were  a  different  thing.  To  travel  by  coach  from 
Sydenham  to  London  and  back  on  literary  errands, 
talking  all  the  way,  and  to  give  whole  mornings  to 
writing  for  the  Star  newspaper  could  not  fail  to  turn  his 
powers  aside  into  shallower  channels.  Plain  living  and 
high  thinking — a  wise  passiveness,  even  if  such  a  thing 
were  possible  for  Campbell — could  not  be  made  com- 
patible with  such  a  life.  And  to  tell  the  honest  truth,  he 
had  never  steadily  adopted  that  ideal.  When  to  this  is 
added  his  liability  to  a  form  of  insomnia  called  coma- 
vigil  (in  Italian  dormiveglia),  which  haunted  him  for 
many  years,  it  will  appear  less  strange  that  his  genius  did 
not  hold  its  bent. 

The  hack-work  was  at  first  rendered  necessary  by 
pecuniary  circumstances.  He  was  dependent  on  his 
own  exertions  for  support,  and  he  married  early.  And 
although  afterwards,  with  the  addition  of  a  Crown  pension, 
his  income  was  by  no  means  contemptible,  he  never  quite 
escaped  from  money  difficulties.  He  was  not  exactly 
improvident,  for  he  was  always  looking  forward,  but  it 
was  in  anticipation  of  future  gains.  His  charities  were 
boundless,  and  he  contributed  largely  to  the  support  of 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

his  mother  and  two  sisters,  the  elder  of  whom  he  sur- 
vived only  by  a  year. 

It  was  a  humorous  caprice  of  Campbell's,  as  of  some 
other  writers,  to  denounce  the  illiberality  of  publishers. 
It  might  have  been  better  for  him  if  they  had  paid  him 
less  handsomely  for  mechanical  work.  They  doubtless 
knew  their  interest  in  exploiting  what  for  a  time  was  an 
illustrious  name.  But  had  he  been  more  constant  to  his 
poetic  calling,  had  he  bethought  him  of  his  mother's 
frugality,  had  he  declined  responsibilities  for  which  his 
sensitiveness  and  excitability  unfitted  him,  and  had  he 
more  often  sought  the  benefit  of  retirement  and  of 
communion  with  Nature, — that  name,  not  yet  obscured, 
would  have  shone  more  brightly.  No  man  is  a  hero  to 
his  amanuensis,  and  the  reminiscences  of  Cyrus  Redding, 
his  sub-editor  of  the  New  Monthly,  contain  some  depress- 
ing passages.  But  a  truer  conception  of  the  real  man  in 
his  later  phase  may  be  obtained  from  the  record  of  con- 
versations with  friends  in  Edinburgh  which  Dr.  Beattie 
has  preserved  in  his  third  volume,  pp.  252-256. 

Campbell's  modest  estimate  of  his  own  achievements, 
the  sobriety  of  his  judgments  on  Rogers,  Southey,  Words- 
worth, his  enthusiastic  admiration  of  Burns,  his  reverence 
for  Scott,  the  depth  and  constancy  of  his  best  affections, 
appear  in  those  few  pages  convincingly ;  and,  however 
much  one  may  regret  them,  the  poet's  editorial  labours 
were  not  fruitless.  Besides  some  of  his  own  minor  pieces 
his  magazine  was  the  medium  for  much  of  Mrs.  Hemans's 
poetry  and  of  Hazlitt's  prose,  and  it  was  here  that 
Campbell  promulgated  the  conception,  which  he  always 
claimed  as  his  own,  of  a  University  for  London — an  idea 
which  is  only  now  approaching  worthy  realization. 
Adopted,  indeed  monopolized,  by  Brougham,  it  was 
thwarted  and  transformed  by  the  religious  difficulty  ;  but 
the  "  Teaching  University  "  which  has  now  been  inaugu- 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

rated  bids  fair  to  become  an  adequate  embodiment  of  the 
poet's  ideal. 

A  further  proof  of  his  ripe  critical  discernment  out- 
growing prejudice  may  be  inserted  here.  He  long  held 
aloof  from  the  theories  of  the  Lake  school,  but  at  a 
breakfast  party  in  his  rooms  in  March  1842,  where  the 
poets  Moore  and  Rogers  and  Dean  Milman  were  present, 
it  was  agreed  by  all  that  "Wordsworth  was  a  great 
poet."  (See  Beattie's  Life,  vol.  iii.  p.  329. )  Not  less  charac- 
teristic, and  dating  from  an  earlier  period,  is  the  affection- 
ate veneration  for  a  very  different  poet,  his  elder  by  twelve 
years,  expressed  in  Campbell's  letter  to  Crabbe  of  2$th 
June  1817  (cet.  40).  (See  the  Life  of  the  Rev.  George  Crabbe, 
by  his  son,  in  Murray's  I  vol.  edition  of  Crabbe,  p.  67.) 

Apart  from  literary  and  social  engagements  there  was 
another  cause  more  potent  to  disable  him.  His  heart 
was  broken. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  when  the  shadow  of  his  own  mis- 
fortune was  closing  round  him,  remained  sufficiently  at 
leisure  from  himself  to  care  for  the  reputation  of  a  brother 
poet.  One  June  evening,  when  the  purpling  sunset 
lingered  over  the  Ochils,  he  walked  forth  amidst  the 
very  scenes  which  had  suggested  "'Tis  distance  lends 
enchantment  to  the  view."  Soothed  by  the  beauty  of 
the  hour,  he  repeated  to  himself  a  verse  from  Campbell's 
Turkish  Lady — 

"  Day  its  sultry  fires  had  wasted, 

Calm  and  cool  the  moonlight  rose  : 
Even  a  captive's  bosom  tasted 
Half  oblivion  of  its  woes." 

And  he  proceeded  to  speculate,  as  he  had  done  ten  years 

before,  on  the  reasons  of  Campbell's  limited  performance. 

But  in  London,  some  months  afterwards,  Scott  heard 

news  of  Campbell  which  threw  a  different  light  on  his 

c 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

unproductiveness.  The  following  entry  occurs  in  the 
Journal  for  28th  April  1828  : — 

"Tom  Campbell  is  in  miserable  plight,  his  son  insane,  his  wife 
on  the  point  of  becoming  so  :  /  mine  et  versus  tccum  nicditare 
canoros ! " 

"  Go  now,  and  meditate  the  tuneful  Muse  !  "  Of  many 
instances  of  true-hearted  feeling  in  the  most  generous  of 
men,  this  remark  of  Scott's,  made  in  the  solitude  of 
his  chamber  and  confided  to  his  diary,  is  one  of  the  most 
striking,  and  certainly  the  most  pathetic.  Few  authors 
have  been  thus  solicitous  for  the  renown  of  another. 
Only  the  greatest  have  justified  Plato's  saying,  "Jealousy 
has  no  place  in  the  celestial  choir."  The  reader  will 
have  observed  that,  in  speaking  of  his  friend,  Scott  always 
uses  the  caressing  diminutive  "  Tom." 

But  to  return  to  our  story :  Sir  Walter  did  not  know 
all.  In  1810  the  two  children,  who  had  spent  an  evening 
with  neighbours  at  Sydenham,  returned  in  a  torrent  of 
rain  protected  by  a  cloak  which  had  been  infected  with 
malignant  fever.  The  younger,  Alison,  the  namesake 
of  Campbell's  life-long  friend,  died  in  a  few  days,  and 
the  first-born,  Thomas  Telford,  called  after  the  famous 
engineer — whether  from  this  or  from  some  other  cause — 
was  never  afterwards  quite  himself.  Mrs.  Campbell  died 
ten  days  after  the  date  of  the  above  entry  in  Scott's 
private  journal. 

The  following  incident,  communicated  to  Dr.  Beattie 
by  Mr.  Buckley  Williams,  occurred  in  the  same  year 
(1828).  Mr.  Williams  wrote  :— 

"  I  became  first  acquainted  with  Mr.  Campbell  in  consequence  of 
his  cousin,  Capt.  Robert  Campbell,  having  married  a  lady  of  Mont- 
gomeryshire. He  asked  me  to  dine  with  him  at  the  club,  and 
while  we  took  a  walk  together,  he  asked  me  many  questions  about 
Wales,  .  .  .  observing  that  he  had  long  intended  to  visit  the  Prin- 
cipality. 'You  have  told  me,'  said  he,  'about  the  early  bards; 
.  .  .  can  you  give  me  some  anecdote  of  a  modern  Welshman  ? '  I 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

told  him  the  following  :  In  Towyn,  Merionethshire,  dwelt  Griffith 
Owen,  an  excellent  performer  on  the  old  Welsh  harp.  He  had  seen 
more  than  eighty  winters,  but  sorrow  was  in  store  for  him.  His 
wife  was  seized  with  mortal  illness,  and  within  a  few  days  carried 
to  the  grave.  His  son  very  shortly  after  became  a  raving  maniac. 
One  clear,  cold,  frosty  night  a  gentleman  was  crossing  Towyn 
heath,  and  saw  before  him  some  object  moving.  Coming  nearer,  he 
heard  a  low  groan,  and  there  stood,  tottering  with  age,  the  vener- 
able figure  of  Griffith  Owen.  '  Griffith,'  said  the  gentleman,  '  what 
can  have  brought  you  at  such  an  hour  to  this  dreary  place?'  The 
old  man  instinctively  replied  in  a  Welsh  triad,  '  My  wife  is  dead, 
my  son  is  mad,  my  harp  is  unstrung  ! ' 

In  an  instant  the  words  shot  through  Campbell's  heart.  It  came 
home  to  him  like  an  electric  shock.  He  could  not,  he  said,  disguise 
his  \veakness — he  cried  like  a  child." 

Yes,  "The  harp  was  unstrung";  for  Campbell  had 
not  the  huge  self-confidence  of  Wordsworth,  or  the  reck- 
less force  of  Byron  ;  nor  was  he  one  of  those  who  learn 
in  suffering  what  they  are  to  teach  in  song.  He  sang 
best  when  he  was  happiest.  Then  his  muse  went  forth 
in  sympathy  with  other  men — real  men  and  women,  not 
an  abstract  Humanity.  And  it  must  be  confessed  that, 
to  begin  with,  his  genius  had  not  great  volume  or  much 
staying  power.  The  Celtic  temperament,  even  when 
blended  with  the  Norman,  is  "soon  kindled  and  soon 
.burned.''  Once  only,  in  1831,  about  three  years  after 
the  extinction  of  his  domestic  hearth,  his  verse  regained 
somewhat  of  its  former  power  and  sweetness.  He  had 
sought  refuge  from  the  distractions  of  his  London  life 
in  a  lodging  at  St.  Leonards-on-Sea,  and  the  Polish 
revolution,  while  already  in  progress,  had  not  yet  been 
crushed.  In  two  fine  poems,  the  lines  On  the  View 
from  St.  Leonards  and  On  the  Camp  Hill  near  Hastings, 
we  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  the  world  has  lost  from 
the  causes  above  mentioned  and  through  the  whirl  of 
feverish  excitement  which  surrounded  him  in  this  and 
the  following  years. 


xxx  INTRODUCTION 

For  the  cause  of  Polish  freedom,  which  rekindled  his 
imagination,  was  a  less  unmingled  source  of  poetic  utter- 
ance than  the  same  passion  had  been  to  him  in  the  days 
of  his  youth.  The  poems  on  this  subject  were  produced 
amidst  a  turmoil  of  agitation,  and  the  fire  in  them  burns 
with  a  lurid  and  unkindly  glare.  Only  one  of  them  is 
included  in  the  present  selection — The  Power  of  Russia. 
This  certainly  contains  some  notable  lines  : — 

"  Norwegian  woods  shall  build 
His  fleets  ;  the  Swede  his  vassal,  and  the  Dane  ; 
The  glebe  of  fifty  kingdoms  shall  be  till'd 
To  feed  his  dazzling,  desolating  train, 
Camp'd  sumless,  "twixt  the  Black  and  Baltic  main  : 

The  stripling  Titan,  strengthening  year  by  year, 

Whom  Persia  bows  to,  China  ill  confines, 
And  India's  homage  waits,  when  Albion's  star  declines." 

That  forecast  is  no  less  significant  at  the  present  hour, 
when  the  "Titan"  is  no  longer  a  "stripling." 

An  incident  which  banished  grief  for  a  while  \vn^  his 
twice-repeated  election  in  1826  and  the  two  following 
years  by  the  students  of  Glasgow  University  as  their 
Lord  Rector.  In  this  office  he  anticipated  some  reforms 
which  have  since  improved  the  position  of  the  Scottish 
student.  On  one  of  these  occasions  an  attempt  was 
made  by  his  opponents  to  bring  forward  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  who  regarded  the  matter  with  indifference,  and 
could  not  understand  "Tom's"  exultation. 

Campbell's  affection  for  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  the 
warmth  of  his  sympathies,  and  his  keen  response  to  any 
sign  of  love  are  well  exemplified  in  this  brief  passage 
of  his  career.  His  whole  nature  responded  to  the 
Glasgow  students,  who  idolized  him  in  their  turn.  A 
contemporary  anecdote  shows  the  effect  produced  on  the 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

average  Scottish  mind.  In  an  accidental  fracas  between 
Campbell  and  a  stranger,  a  policeman  was  called  in. 
Campbell's  companion  said,  "This  is  Mr.  Campbell, 
the  poet."  " 'Od,  mon!"  said  the  officer,  who  proved 
to  be  a  Scotsman,  ' '  is  this  the  great  Lord  Rector  of 
Glasgow?" — Calder  Marshall's  statue  in  Westminster 
Abbey  represents  the  poet  in  his  Rectorial  robes. 

The  poet  gradually  recovered  a  measure  of  equanimity, 
and  even  of  outward  gaiety,  and  at  one  time  it  seemed 
as  if  the  breakage  might  be  "handsomely  pieced,"  to 
use  Scott's  phrase  in  another  connection.  But  this  hope 
also  failed  him  through  some  misadventure,  and  the 
inward  spontaneous  buoyancy  was  never  renewed.  Can 
we  wonder  that  his  later  publications  were  disappointing 
to  his  friends,  or  that  he  was  grievously  disappointed 
at  the  reception  of  them,  or  that  some  superficial  weak- 
nesses, due  to  an  excitable  temperament  and  to  various 
antecedents,  should  have  exposed  him  to  the  mockery 
of  another  Scotsman  of  genius,  who  dealt  to  him  the 
same  hard  measure  as  to  dear  Charles  Lamb  ? 

The  flaws  in  Campbell's  workmanship  were  less  per- 
ceptible to  his  generation  than  they  are  to  ours.  Some 
of  his  peculiarities  would  be  as  strange  in  a  poem  of 
1899  as  the  blue  surtout  with  gilt  buttons,  the  white 
waistcoat,  and  the  nankeens  of  his  most  Whiggish  days. 

We  have  accepted  the  doctrine  of  the  shortest  chapter 
in  De  Banville's  (or  in  any)  treatise  on  the  art  of  poetry, 
"Licences  PoMques — II  n'y  en  a  pas."  But  to  speak 
of  poetic  diction  as  "artificial"  is  not  to  condemn  it, 
unless  the  term  is  used  in  a  question-begging  sense. 
Homeric  diction,  with  all  its  freshness,  is  highly  artificial 
and  studiously  adapted  to  the  requirements  of  hexameter 
verse.  The  dramatic  language  of  Sophocles  is  not  that 
which  he  talked  whether  at  Athens  or  in  Chios.  Already 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

in  ,1£schylus  there  is  the  tendency  "  to  call  things  out 
of  their  names,"  which  became  an  abuse  in  the  Nonios 
of  Timotheos.  The  epithet  takes  the  place  of  the  noun, 
the  genus  of  the  species.  Fish,  for  example,  in  the 
Persae  are  "  the  voiceless  children  of  the  unpolluted 
one.''  Elizabethan  euphuism  was  an  elaborate  artifice, 
the  offspring  of  a  creative  instinct,  which  pervaded 
English  poetry  throughout  its  highest  bloom.  Dante 
formed  out  of  the  Tuscan  dialect  a  poetic  diction  which 
educated  Italians  everywhere  understand.  But  in  Italy, 
more  than  elsewhere,  the  language  of  literature  stands 
apart  from  common  speech,  while  the  medium  of  cultured 
intercourse  is  different  from  both. 

The  poet's  function  is  to  mould  human  speech  into 
new  forms  of  beauty.  Wordsworth,  by  his  theory,  much 
more  than  by  his  practice,  exploded  some  outworn 
traditions ;  but  in  doing  so  he  opened  the  way  for 
artifices  of  another  kind,  in  which  individual  caprice 
was  apt  to  replace  familiar  convention. 

Keats,  the  most  poetic  of  the  new  brotherhood,  began 
by  borrowing  from  the  Elizabethans  modes  of  speech 
which  he  only  partly  understood.  It  was  by  degrees  that 
he  learned  how  without  forcing  the  note  to  fill  every 
cranny  with  "the  ore  of  poetry."  Burns,  with  a  similar 
ambition,  had  written  of  "  the  tenebrific  scene "  ;  and 
we  are  told  by  Mr.  W.  A.  Craigie,  who  ought  to  know, 
that  the  language  of  "  Scots  wha  hae  "  is  not  pure  Scotch, 
either  Highland  or  Lowland.  Campbell,  while  adhering 
generally  to  earlier  modes  of  art,  had  special  mannerisms 
of  his  own.  Personification,  so  rife  in  the  eighteenth 
century  poetry,  was  natural  to  his  Celtic  genius  ;  and 
*uch  means  of  condensation  as  the  use  of  the  possessive 
for  the  genitive  case — "  Ulva's  Isle,"  "twilight's  con- 
templative mood," — or  of  the  adverb  for  the  adjective  ; 
such  forms  as  "  cultureless,"  inversions  (from  which 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

Wordsworth  was  not  free),  and  the  recurrence  of  certain 
favourite  words  and  phrases,  such  as  bland,  elate,  glitter- 
ing, true  to,  sublime,  are  features  which  appear  affected 
to  readers  of  to-day ;  and  so  does  the  use  of  unfamiliar 
names  :  Sarmatia,  Lochlin,  Albin,  Innisfail,  chosen  partly 
for  the  sake  of  sound.  Local  names  and  associations 
have  become  fixed  for  us  by  frequent  travel,  and  in  Scot- 
land particularly  the  railway  companies  have  prescribed 
forms  of  orthography  as  unlike  the  Gaelic  as  any  inven- 
tions of  the  poet.  But  Jeffrey  was  right  in  saying  to 
him,  d  propos  of  Gertrude,  "  the  most  dangerous  faults 
are  your  faults  of  diction." 

Except  when  revisiting  in  thought  the  Western  High- 
lands, Campbell's  descriptions  of  scenery  are  sometimes 
inconsistent.  His  natural  history  is  inexact.  The  beaver 
does  not  build  on  rocks,  and  we  are  in  the  habit  of 
distinguishing  more  accurately  than  he  does  the  different 
species  and  habitats  of  the  feline  carnivora. 

His  attitude  towards  science  generally  is  characteristic 
of  a  transitional  epoch.  Sincerely  reverencing  the  genius 
of  Newton  and  of  Sir  William  Herschel,  he  yet  clings  to 
the  popular  conception  of  the  rainbow,  and  complains 

"  When  science  from  Creation's  face 

Enchantment's  veil  withdraws, 
What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws." 

He  is  not  careful,  as  Tennyson  was,  to  adjust  language  to 
astronomical  fact.  To  him,  as  to  the  uneducated,  the 
first  appearance  of  a  celestial  object  is  its  rise,  though 
in  relation  to  the  observer  it  is  really  setting.  So,  in 
the  second  of  the  poems  to  Caroline,  the  Evening  Star  is 
adjured  to  "appear" 

"  And  early  rise  and  long  delay 
When  Caroline  herself  is  here." 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

And  in  the  Exile  of  Erin,  to  the  confusion  of  editors, 
the  "  day-star,"  by  which  the  evening  star  is  meant 
(though  the  word  properly  signifies  either  "sun"  or 
"morning  star"),  is  seen  from  Altona  to  "rise"  in  the 
direction  of  Ireland.  In  writing  to  a  friend  on  the  same 
subject,  many  years  later,  Campbell  himself  said,  "Tony 
and  I  repaired  to  the  spot  where  we  had  often  walked 
when  the  day-star  (sic)  was  setting  in  the  west "  (Life, 
vol.  ii.  pp.  42-45).  But  "  set "  is  a  small  insignificant 
word,  and  "rose"  fills  the  ear  much  better.  The  poet 
is  by  no  means  singular  in  his  error — or  his  concession 
to  a  popular  fallacy.  The  realist  Tolstoy,  without  the 
excuse  of  metre,  makes  his  hero  delay  a  confidential 
communication  ' '  until  the  evening  star  shall  have  risen 
on  the  horizon  "  !  How  many  persons  in  the  twentieth 
century  make  the  same  mistake  about  the  new  moon  ? 
In  a  recent  poem,  full  of  local  colour,  the  following  line 
occurs : — 

"And  the  waning  moon  is  setting  behind  the  rubber  tree.  " 

Wordsworth  may  after  all  assist  us  here — "The  appro- 
priate business  of  poetry  ...  is  to  treat  of  things  not 
as  they  are  but  as  they  appear :  not  as  they  exist  in 
themselves,  but  as  they  seem  to  exist  to  the  senses  and  to 
the  passions."  And  the  illusion  in  question  is  really,  for 
many  persons,  an  illusion  of  sense. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  in  this  connection  that  the 
poet  who  was  careless  about  such  particulars  was  fond 
of  speculating  in  a  spirit  not  unlike  that  of  Sir  Alfred 
Wallace,  though  with  cruder  information,  on  the  larger 
aspects  of  astronomy.  The  Last  J\fan  is  an  instance 
in  point,  and  in  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  he  had 
already  anticipated  the  thought  which  was  so  much 
admired  when  propounded  by  Dr.  Chalmers  in  his 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

Astronomical  Lectures,  that  the  centre  of  the  visible 
universe,  round  which  even  the  fixed  stars  revolve,  may 
be  the  throne  of  God  (Part  II.  lines  806-809). 

Campbell's  scheme  of  colours  is  almost  as  limited  as 
Homer's.  Having  no  single  epithet  for  the  iridescence 
of  the  rainbow,  he  contents  himself  with  speaking  of  "  its 
yellow  lustre."  But  in  spite  of  these  and  other  blemishes 
which  his  most  careful  elaboration  did  not  remove,  the 
genuine  poetic  quality  of  Campbell's  best  productions  is 
unquestionably  of  a  high  order.  As  Mr.  Allingham, 
himself  a  neglected  poet,  has  observed,  "the  rhythm 
carries  one  forward  like  the  springy  movement  of  a  good 
horse." 

"Compared  as  lyrical  writers,"  says  the  same  critic, 
"Campbell  seems  to  me  to  have  a  finer  touch  than 
Scott  or  Byron,  the  former  of  whom  is  apt  to  be  rough, 
the  latter  turgid." 

The  true  lyric  note  is  hard  to  analyse.  It  depends 
not  on  any  rules  of  art  prescribing  the  medium  of 
expression,  but  on  the  intensity  and  purity  of  the  glow 
which  radiates  directly  from  the  core,  and  which  super- 
ficial unevennesses  cannot  obscure.  Every  candid  reader 
must  acknowledge  that  in  these  poems  some  of  the  truest 
and  most  generous  of  human  feelings  often  find  their 
noblest  expression.  And  though  complex  harmonies  are 
rarely  found  in  them,  the  melody  is  sufficiently  varied  to 
please  the  most  fastidious  ear.  Campbell  had  acquired 
a  very  high  degree  of  metrical  skill.  How  admirably 
adapted  to  the  subject,  for  example,  is  the  metre  of  the 
lines  On  the  Camp  Hill  near  Hastings.  One  seems 
to  hear  the  harpings  of  the  Norman  minstrels  themselves 
as  they  touch  the  lyre  in  confidence  of  victory.  And,  to 
speak  on  a  point  of  far  less  moment,  his  facility  in  rhym- 
ing appears  in  his  frequent  preference  for  double  endings, 
so  rare  in  English,  which  add  grace  and  lightness  to 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

many  of  his  songs.  If  he  allowed  himself  some  latitude 
in  this  respect,  it  is  not  more  than  was  permitted  to 
many  of  our  best  poets  before  Tennyson.  Some  one  has 
objected  to  "childhood  "  rhyming  to  "  wildwood  "  ;  but 
what  then  of  Shelley's  "accept  not" — "reject  not,"  in 
one  of  the  most  exquisite  of  his  shorter  pieces  ? 

It  is  with  some  reluctance  that  Thcodric  has  been 
excluded  from  the  present  volume.  It  disappointed 
Campbell's  admirers,  who  looked  for  something  different 
from  the  Bard  of  Hope ;  but  Campbell,  although  little 
influenced  by  contemporary  fashions  in  verse,  was  well 
aware,  after  his  wide  survey  of  English  poetry,  that 
the  heroic  couplet  admits  of  various  uses,  and  he  had 
deliberately  set  his  "domestic  tale"  in  a  calmer  key.  A 
brief  quotation  may  indicate  the  nature  of  the  style  :  — 

"  Ev'n  when  her  light  forsook  him,  it  bequeathed 
Ennobling  sorrow  :  and  her  memory  breathed 
A  sweetness  that  survived  her  living  days, 
As  odorous  scents  outlast  the  censer's  blaze. " 

But  the  story  is  ineffectually  told.  There  is  no  proper 
climax,  and  the  reader  has  not  been  sufficiently  interested 
in  Constance.  There  is  a  distraction  of  sympathy, 
and  the  hero  is  a  man  of  straw.  Campbell  might  well 
write  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "I  am  a  dead  bad  hand  at 
narrative."  Even  in  Gertrude,  in  spite  of  Jeffrey's 
warning,  the  parting  of  the  child  lovers  is  not  mentioned 
until  Waldegrave's  return.  Theodric  was  produced 
under  the  stress  of  deep  personal  anxiety,  which  took 
the  heart  out  of  it,  and,  notwithstanding  many  beauties 
of  expression,  the  author  was  not  justified  in  hoping  that 
it  would  live. 

The  case  is  still  worse  with  The  Pilgrim  of  Glencoe. 
This  poet  was  out  of  his  element  in  attempting  realism. 
Although  the  characters  of  the  hospitable  but  fierce  old 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

Jacobite,  of  his  thoughtful  son,  and  of  the  veteran 
pensioner  are  graphically  enough  given,  and  the  author 
shows  intimate  knowledge  of  the  Highland  character, 
yet,  when  we  are  forced  to  smile  at  the  apoplectic  streke 
which  saves  the  situation,  we  are  aware  that  all  poetic 
atmosphere  is  vanished.  Such  comic  disillusionment 
belongs  to  prose. 

The  Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Burns  has  been  in- 
cluded, but  with  some  hesitation.  It  was  written,  no 
doubt  in  haste,  for  an  anniversary ;  but  although  it  has 
some  fine  stanzas,  and  the  noble  line  which  calls  the 
muse  of  Bannockburn 

"A  sunburst  in  the  storm  of  death," 

it  scarcely  does  justice  to  Campbell's  real  enthusiasm  for 
one  whom  he  loved  to  call  the  "Scottish  Shakespeare." 
Excepting  the  lines  on  Chaucer  which  appear  among  the 
latest  poems,  it  is  his  only  tribute  in  verse  to  a  brother 
bard. 

The  arrangement  here  adopted  is  partly  chronological ; 
that  is  to  say,  the  poems  are  grouped  in  successive  periods. 
In  attempting  this  the  editor  has  been  assisted  by  some 
notes  in  the  poet's  handwriting  on  the  margin  of  the 
contents  of  the  edition  of  1837,  giving  the  dates  and  in 
some  instances  the  places  of  production.  These  notes 
for  the  most  part  are  in  agreement  with  Dr.  Beattie,  who 
seems  to  have  used  them.  But  some  caution  here  is 
necessary ;  for,  as  is  obvious  in  the  case  of  The  Battle 
of  the  Baltic  and  The  Soldier's  Dream,  a  poem  of 
Campbell's  often  existed  in  germ,  or  even  in  outline,  for 
years  before  it  saw  the  light  of  day.  A  striking  instance 
of  this  habit  is  afforded  by  The  Last  Alan.  It  was 
published  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  for  1824,  and 
is  referred  by  the  poet  himself  to  1823.  It  has  been 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

plausibly  said  to  reflect  some  of  the  sad  experiences  of 
that  and  the  preceding  period  ;  yet  it  is  evident  that  the 
plan  of  the  poem  and  many  of  its  leading  thoughts  had 
been  in  the  poet's  mind  for  at  least  ten  years.  After  its 
publication  he  was  reminded  that  in  Byron's  poem  of 
Darkness  some  of  the  same  ideas  and  images  had 
been  expressed,  and  he  had  a  horror  of  plagiarism ;  but 
on  reflection  he  recalled  the  fact  that  in  a  conversation 
with  Lord  Byron  he  had  put  forth  these  very  conceptions. 
This  must  have  been  previous  to  1816,  the  year  of  Byron's 
departure  from  England  ;  and  in  1813  there  took  place 
an  interview  with  Sir  William  Herschel  which  formed 
an  epoch  in  Campbell's  life.  He  asked  Sir  William, 
whom  he  had  celebrated  as  having  "yielded  the  lyre  of 
Heaven  another  string,"  and  who  had  "  looked  further 
into  space  than  any  other  man,"  whether  La  Place  was 
justified  in  asserting  the  stability  of  the  Solar  System. 
Sir  William  answered,  "  No ;  for  the  Asteroids  are 
fragments  of  an  exploded  planet,  and  that  may  have 
been  the  beginning  of  the  end."  The  effect  of  such  a 
statement  on  the  poet's  vivid  imagination  may  well  be 
conceived. 

The  poem  was  much  admired  by  our  fathers,  not 
merely  as  a  tour  de  force,  but  for  the  human  feeling 
which  pervades  it.  The  pathetic  view  of  life  and  the 
stoical  ending  repeat  in  deeper  tones,  and  with  a  larger 
intention,  the  "  sorrowful  mood  "  in  which  long  since  he 
had  mused  on  the  lost  home  of  his  ancestors. 

The  general  consideration  here  advanced  has  led  me 
to  group  the  poems  produced  in  middle  life — between 
the  publication  of  O'Connor s  Child  and  the  edition  of 
1837 — with  some  regard  to  the  nature  and  subject  of 
each  poem.  Thus  the  main  sections  are  : — 

i.  The  earliest  poems,  produced  before  T/ic  Pleasures 
of  Hojte. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

2.  The  Pleasures  of  Hope. 

3.  Poems  of  1800  to  1808. 

4.  Gertrude  of  Wyoming. 

5.  O'Connor's  Child. 

6.  Poems  of  1809  to  1836,  consisting  of 

(a)  Lyrics. 

(b)  Ballads  and  Romances. 

(c)  Translations  from  the  Greek. 

(d)  Poems  in  Blank  Verse. 

(e)  In  the  Cause  of  Freedom. 
(/)  Occasional  and  Personal. 

(g)  Lighter    Lyrics.      (The  genius   that   soared 
could  "stoop  upon  the  wing.") 

7.  Latest  Poems,  1837  to  1841. 

By  grouping  together  the  poems  In  the  Cause  of 
Freedom,  Campbell's  lifelong  persistence  in  his  passionate 
devotion  to  Liberty  is  made  conspicuous. 

In  revising  the  text  the  editor  has  availed  himself  of 
the  following  editions  : — 

1.  The  quarto  of  1809  (published  for  the  author  by 
Longmans,  etc.,  and  dedicated  to  Lord  Holland),  con- 
taining Gertrude  of  Wyoming;  Ye  Mariners  of  England, 
A  Naval  Ode;  Glenara;  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic;  LochieFs 
Warning ;  Hohenlinden,  and  Lord  Ulliris  Daughter. 

2.  The  edition  of  1830  (Henry  Colburn  and  Richard 
Bentley).     One  poem  is  printed  from  this  edition  only, 
viz.  Lines  to  Edward  Lytlon  Bulwer  on  the  Birth  of 
his  Child. 

3.  The  poet's  final  edition  of  1843  (Moxon). 

Mr.  F.  G.  Kenyon  of  the  British  Museum  has  kindly 
examined  for  me  the  first  edition  of  O'Connor's  Child 
(1810),  containing  also  some  minor  poems,  of  which  the 
little  song,  My  Mind  is  my  Kingdom,  here  given  amongst 
the  "  Lighter  Lyrics,"  was  never  republished  by  the 
poet.  A  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  The  Pleasures  of 


xl  INTRODUCTION 

Hope  in  the  Edinburgh  Advocates'  Library  was  in  1901 
compared  with  the  edition  of  1830  by  my  late  lamented 
friend,  .Mr.  John  Scott  of  Halkshill. 

Some  places  in  which  an  earlier  reading  has  been 
restored  are  mentioned  in  the  notes.  The  most  im- 
portant are  (i)  in  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,  "our  captains 
cried,"  where  the  later  editions  have  "captain";  (2)  in 
Reullnra,  "millstone  crushes  the  grain"  is  preferred  to 
"millstones  crush,"  as  better  both  in  sense  and  metre ; 
(3)  in  two  places  an  obvious  clerical  error  has  been 
corrected — in  The  Ode  to  Winter,  where  Mr.  W ebb's 
emendation  "lend"  for  "lead"  is  obviously  right,  and 
in  Gertrude,  where  the  printers,  by  reading  "heard  and 
seen"  instead  of  "seen  and  heard,"  have  destroyed  the 
rhyme.  Some  of  the  author's  alterations,  especially  in 
Lochiel,  are  familiarly  known ;  others  which  appear 
significant  are  (i)  in  The  Mariners,  "her  march  is  on 
the  mountain  waves"  (ed.  1809),  where  "on"  is  changed 
to  "o'er"  in  1830  and  later  editions;  (2)  in  Gertrude, 
Part  II.,  stanza  xi.,  where  "palm-tree"  (edd.  1809, 
1830)  has  been  changed  to  "pine-tree" — a  concession 
to  natural  history  ;  (3)  in  Men  of  England,  "  patriotism  " 
(ed.  1830)  is  changed  to  "  freedom  "  for  the  sake  of  metre, 
but  with  loss  of  force  ;  (4)  in  Lines  on  leaving  a  Scene  in 
Bavaria,  "misfortune"  is  changed  to  "the  friendless," 
showing  that  the  poet  had  become  conscious  of  an  exces- 
sive tendency  to  personify  abstractions.  The  punctuation, 
not  a  strong  feature  in  Campbell,  has  been  altered  here 
and  there  where  the  meaning  seemed  to  require  it. 

I  have  been  entrusted  by  Mr.  Lionel  Furneaux  Hill 
with  a  note-book  which  belonged  to  the  poet's  niece, 
Mary  Campbell.  This  has  enabled  me  to  correct  the 
first  line  of  Moonlight  from  the  author's  MS.  draft,  and 
to  insert  amongst  the  latest  poems  some  additional  lines 
to  the  Child -Sweet  heart,  also  in  Campbell's  own  hand- 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

writing,  which  have  at  least  the  interest  attaching  to  an 
unpublished  piece. 

The  frontispiece  is  a  photogravure  from  a  portrait 
in  oils,  attributed  to  Sir  David  Wilkie.  If  the  attribu- 
tion is  correct,  it  must  have  been  painted  in  1802, 
when  Wilkie  was  a  young  art  student,  and  Campbell 
was  still  in  Edinburgh  (at.  twenty-four).  The  picture  is 
in  the  collection  of  Mrs.  James  Keyden,  of  I  Claremont 
Terrace,  Glasgow,  to  whom  best  thanks  are  due. 

The  editor  has  also  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of 
Mr.  J.  Murray  and  of  Mr.  Henry  Newbolt  in  allowing 
him  to  repeat  the  substance  of  an  article  which  appeared 
in  the  New  Monthly  for  February  1903,  and  the  kindness 
of  several  surviving  relatives  of  the  poet,  especially  of 
Mr.  L.  F.  Hill  (son  of  the  Aldine  editor),  and  Mrs. 
Archibald  Campbell  of  Brighton,  who  have  supplied 
valuable  documents  and  information. 


EARLY    POEMS 


TRANSLATION  FROM   EURIPIDES 

MEDEA,    LINES    190-203 

TELL  me,  ye  bards,  whose  skill  sublime 
First  charm'd  the  ear  of  youthful  Time 
With  numbers  wrapt  in  heavenly  fire, 
Who  bade  delighted  Echo  swell 
The  trembling  transports  of  the  lyre, 
The  murmur  of  the  shell — 
Why  to  the  burst  of  joy  alone 
Accords  sweet  Music's  soothing  tone  ? 
Why  can  no  bard,  with  magic  strain, 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain  ? 
While  varied  tones  obey  your  sweep, 
The  mild,  the  plaintive,  and  the  deep, 
Bends  not  despairing  Grief  to  hear 
Your  golden  lute  with  ravish'd  ear  ? 
Has  all  your  art  no  power  to  bind 
The  fiercer  pangs  that  shake  the  mind, 
And  lull  the  wrath  at  whose  command 
Murder  bares  her  gory  hand  ? 
When,  flush'd  with  joy,  the  rosy  throng 
Weave  the  light  dance,  ye  swell  the  song  : 
Cease,  ye  vain  warblers  !  cease  to  charm  ! 
The  breast  with  other  raptures  warm  ! 
Cease  !  till  your  hand  with  mngic  strain 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain  ! 

1795- 


EARLY  POEMS 
FROM  THE  SAME  TRAGEDY 

PARAPHRASE   OF  LINES  824-845 

O  HAGGARD  queen  !  to  Athens  dost  thou  guide 
Thy  glowing  chariot,  steep'd  in  kindred  gore  ; 

Or  seek  to  hide  thy  foul  infanticide 

Where  Peace  and  Mercy  dwell  for  evermore  ? 

The  land  where  Truth,  pure,  precious,  and  sublime, 
Woos  the  deep  silence  of  sequester'd  bowers, 

And  warriors,  matchless  since  the  first  of  time, 

Rear  their  bright  banners  o'er  unconquer'd  towers  ! 

Where  joyous  youth,  to  Music's  mellow  strain, 
Twines  in  the  dance  with  nymphs  for  ever  fair, 

While  Spring  eternal  on  the  lilied  plain 
Waves  amber  radiance  through  the  fields  of  air  ! 

The  tuneful  Nine  (so  sacred  legends  tell) 

First  waked  their  heavenly  lyre  these  scenes  among 

Still  in  your  greenwood  bowers  they  love  to  dwell ; 
Still  in  your  vales  they  swell  the  choral  song  ! 

But  there  the  tuneful,  chaste,  Pierian  fair, 

The  guardian  nymphs  of  green  Parnassus,  now 

Sprung  from  Harmonia,  while  her  graceful  hair 
Waved  in  high  auburn  o'er  her  polish'd  brow  ! 

Where  silent  vales,  and  glades  of  green  array, 
The  murmuring  wreaths  of  cool  Cephisus  lave, 

There,  as  the  muse  hath  sung,  at  noon  of  clay, 
The  Queen  of  Beauty  bow'd  to  taste  the  wave  ; 


EARLY  POEMS  5 

And  bless'd  the  stream,  and  breathed  across  the  land 
The  soft  sweet  gale  that  fans  yon  summer  bowers  ; 

And  there  the  sister  Loves,  a  smiling  band, 

Crown'd  with  the  fragrant  wreaths  of  rosy  flowers  ! 

"  And  go,"  she  cries,  "  in  yonder  valleys  rove, 
With  Beauty's  torch  the  solemn  scenes  illume ; 

Wake  in  each  eye  the  radiant  light  of  Love, 

Breathe    on  each    cheek    young    Passion's    tender 
bloom  ! 

Entwine,  with  myrtle  chains,  your  soft  controul, 
To  sway  the  hearts  of  Freedom's  darling  kind  ! 

With  glowing  charms  enrapture  Wisdom's  soul, 
And  mould  to  grace  ethereal  Virtue's  mind." 

1796. 


LOVE  AND   MADNESS 

AN    ELEGY 

HARK  !  from  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower 
The  solemn  bell  has  toll'd  the  midnight  hour  ! 
Roused  from  drear  visions  of  distemper'd  sleep, 
Poor  Broderick  wakes — in  solitude  to  weep  ! 

"Cease,  Memory,  cease  (the  friendless  mourner  cried) 
To  probe  the  bosom  too  severely  tried  ! 
Oh  !  ever  cease,  my  pensive  thoughts,  to  stray 
Through  the  bright  fields  of  Fortune's  better  day, 
When  youthful  HOPE,  the  music  of  the  mind, 
Tuned  all  its  charms,  and  Errington  was  kind  ! 


6  EARLY  POEMS 

Yet,  can  I  cease,  while  glows  this  trembling  frame, 
In  sighs  to  speak  thy  melancholy  name? 
I  hear  thy  spirit  wail  in  every  storm  ! 
In  midnight  shades  I  view  thy  passing  form  ! 
Pale  as  in  that  sad  hour  when  doom'd  to  feel, 
Deep  in  thy  perjured  heart,  the  bloody  steel ! 

Demons  of  Vengeance  !  ye  at  whose  command 
I  grasp'd  the  sword  with  more  than  woman's  hand, 
Say  ye,  did  Pity's  trembling  voice  controul, 
Or  horror  damp  the  purpose  of  my  soul  ? 
No  !  my  wild  heart  sat  smiling  o'er  the  plan, 
Till  Hate  fulfill'd  what  baffled  Love  began  ! 

Yes  ;  let  the  clay-cold  breast  that  never  knew 
One  tender  pang  to  generous  Nature  true, 
Half-mingling  pity  with  the  gall  of  scorn, 
Condemn  this  heart,  that  bled  in  love  forlorn  ! 

And  ye,  proud  fair,  whose  soul  no  gladness  warms, 
Save  Rapture's  homage  to  your  conscious  charms  ! 
Delighted  idols  of  a  gaudy  train, 
111  can  your  blunter  feelings  guess  the  pain, 
When  the  fond  faithful  heart,  inspired  to  prove 
Friendship  refined,  the  calm  delight  of  Love, 
Feels  all  its  tender  strings  with  anguish  torn, 
And  bleeds  at  perjured  Pride's  inhuman  scorn. 

Say,  then,  did  pitying  Heaven  condemn  the  deed, 
When  Vengeance  bade  thee,  faithless  lover  !  bleed  ? 
Long  had  I  watch'd  thy  dark  foreboding  brow, 
What  time  thy  bosom  scorn'd  its  dearest  vow  ! 
Sad  though  I  wept  the  friend,  the  lover  changed, 
Still  thy  cold  look  was  scornful  and  estranged, 
Till  from  thy  pity,  love,  and  shelter  thrown, 
I  wander'd  hopeless,  friendless,  and  alone  ! 


EARLY  POEMS 

Oh  !  righteous  Heaven  !  'twas  then  my  tortured  soul 
First  gave  to  wrath  unlimited  controul  ! 
Adieu  the  silent  look  !  the  streaming  eye  ! 
The  murmur* d  plaint !  the  deep  heart-heaving  sigh  ! 
Long-slumbering  Vengeance  wakes  to  better  deeds  ; 
He  shrieks,  he  falls,  the  perjured  lover  bleeds  ! 
Now  the  last  laugh  of  agony  is  o'er, 
And  pale  in  blood  he  sleeps,  to  wake  no  more  ! 

'Tis  done  !  the  flame  of  hate  no  longer  burns  : 
Nature  relents,  but,  ah  !  too  late  returns  ! 
Why  does  my  soul  this  gush  of  fondness  feel  ? 
Trembling  and  faint,  I  drop  the  guilty  steel  ! 
Cold  on  my  heart  the  hand  of  terror  lies, 
And  shades  of  horror  close  my  languid  eyes  ! 

Oh  !  'twas  a  deed  of  Murder's  deepest  grain  ! 
Could  Broderick's  soul  so  true  to  wrath  remain? 
A  friend  long  true,  a  once  fond  lover  fell  ! — 
Where  Love  was  foster'd  could  not  Pity  dwell  ? 

Unhappy  youth  !  while  yon  pale  crescent  glows 
To  watch  o'er  silent  Nature's  deep  repose, 
Thy  sleepless  spirit,  breathing  from  the  tomb, 
Foretells  my  fate,  and  summons  me  to  come  ! 
Once  more  I  see  thy  sheeted  spectre  stand, 
Roll  the  dim  eye,  and  wave  the  paly  hand  ! 

Soon  may  this  fluttering  spark  of  vital  flame 
Forsake  its  languid  melancholy  frame  ! 
Soon  may  these  eyes  their  trembling  lustre  close, 
Welcome  the  dreamless  night  of  long  repose  ! 
Soon  may  this  wbe-worn  spirit  seek  the  bourne 
Where,  lull'd  to  slumber,  Grief  forgets  to  mourn  !  " 

1795- 


EARLY  POEMS 


THE    HARPER 

ON  the  green  banks  of  Shannon,  when  Sheelah  was  nigh, 

No  blithe  Irish  lad  was  so  happy  as  I  ; 

No  harp  like  my  own  could  so  cheerily  play, 

And  wherever  I  went  was  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  at  last  I  was  forced  from  my  Sheelah  to  part, 
She  said,  (while  the  sorrow  was  big  at  her  heart), 
Oh  !  remember  your  Sheelah,  when  far,  far  away  : 
And  be  kind,  my  dear  Pat,  to  our  poor  dog  Tray. 

Poor  dog  !  he  was  faithful  and  kind,  to  be  sure, 
And  he  constantly  loved  me,  although  I  was  poor ; 
When  the  sour-looking  folks  sent  me  heartless  away, 
I  had  always  a  friend  in  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  the  road  was  so  dark,  and  the  night  was  so  cold, 
And  Pat  and  his  dog  were  grown  weary  and  old, 
How  snugly  we  slept  in  my  old  coat  of  grey, 
And  he  lick'd  me  for  kindness — my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Though  my  wallet  was  scant,  I  remember'd  his  case, 
Nor  refused  my  last  crust  to  his  pitiful  face ; 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter  day, 
And  I  play'd  a  sad  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Where  now  shall  I  go,  poor,  forsaken,  and  blind  ? 
Can  I  find  one  to  guide  me,  so  faithful  and  kind  ? 
To  my  sweet  native  village,  so  far,  far  away, 
I  can  never  more  return  with  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

1796. 


EARLY  POEMS 


THE    WOUNDED    HUSSAR    . 

ALONE  to  the  banks  of  the  dark-rolling  Danube 
Fair  Adelaide  hied  when  the  battle  was  o'er  : — 

"  Oh  whither,"  she  cried,  "  hast  thou  wander'd,  my  lover, 
Or  here  dost  thou  welter  and  bleed  on  the  shore  ? 

What  voice  did  I  hear?  'twas  my  Henry  that  sigh'd  !" 
All  mournful  she  hasten'd  ;  nor  wander'd  she  far, 

When  bleeding,  and  low,  on  the  heath  she  descried, 
By  the  light  of  the  moon,  her  poor  wounded  Hussar  ! 

From  his  bosom  that  heaved  the  last  torrent  was  streaming, 
And  pale  was  his  visage,  deep  mark'd  with  a  scar  ! 

And  dim  was  that  eye,  once  expressively  beaming, 
That  melted  in  love  and  that  kindled  in  war  ! 

How  smit  was  poor  Adelaide's  heart  at  the  sight  ! 

How  bitter  she  wept  o'er  the  victim  of  war  ! 
"  Hast  thou  come,  my  fond  Love,  this  last  sorrowful  night, 

To  cheer  the  lone  heart  of  your  wounded  Hussar?" 

"  Thou  shall  live,"  she  replied ;  "  Heaven's  mercy  relieving 
Eacli  anguishing  wound  shall  forbid  me  to  mourn  ! " 

' '  Ah  no  !  the  last  pang  of  my  bosom  is  heaving  ! 
No  light  of  the  morn  shall  to  Henry  return  ! 

Thou  charmer  of  life,  ever  tender  and  true  ! 

Ye  babes  of  my  love,  that  await  me  afar  !  " 
His  faltering  tongue  scarce  could  murmur  adieu, 

When  he  sunk  in  her  arms — the  poor  wounded  Hussar  ! 

1796. 


EARLY  POEMS 


GILDEROY 

THE  last,  the  fatal  hour  is  come, 
That  bears  my  love  from  me  : 

I  hear  the  dead  note  of  the  drum, 
I  mark  the  gallows'  tree  ! 

The  bell  has  toll'd  ;  it  shakes  my  heart 
The  trumpet  speaks  thy  name  : 

And  must  my  Gilderoy  depart 
To  bear  a  death  of  shame  ? 

No  bosom  trembles  for  thy  doom  ; 

No  mourner  wipes  a  tear  ; 
The  gallows'  foot  is  all  thy  tomb, 

The  sledge  is  all  thy  bier. 

Oh,  Gilderoy  !  bethought  we  then 

So  soon,  so  sad  to  part, 
When  first  in  Roslin's  lovely  glen 

You  triumph'd  o'er  my  heart  ? 

Your  locks  they  glitter'd  to  the  sheen, 
Your  hunter  garb  was  trim  ; 

And  graceful  was  the  ribbon  green 
That  bound  your  manly  limb  ! 

Ah  !  little  thought  I  to  deplore 
Those  limbs  in  fetters  bound  ; 

Or  hear,  upon  the  scaffold  floor. 
The  midnight  hammer  sound. 

Ye  cruel,  cruel,  that  combined 

The  guiltless  to  pursue  ; 
My  Gilderoy  was  ever  kind, 

He  could  not  injure  you  ! 


EARLY  POEMS 

A  long  adieu  !  but  where  shall  fly 

Thy  widow  all  forlorn, 
When  every  mean  and  cruel  eye 

Regards  my  woe  with  scorn  ? 

Yes  !  they  will  mock  thy  widow's  tears, 
And  hate  thine  orphan  boy ; 

Alas  !  his  infant  beauty  wears 
The  form  of  Gilderoy. 

Then  will  I  seek  the  dreary  mound 
That  wraps  thy  mouldering  clay, 

And  weep  and  linger  on  the  ground, 
And  sigh  my  heart  away. 

1798. 


THE    PLEASURES    OF 
HOPE 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

PART  THE   FIRST 


THE  poem  opens  with  a  comparison  between  the  beauty  of  remote 
objects  in  a  landscape,  and  those  ideal  scenes  of  felicity  which  the 
imagination  delights  to  contemplate — the  influence  of  anticipation 
upon  the  other  passions  is  next  delineated — an  allusion  is  made  to  the 
well-known  fiction  in  Pagan  tradition,  that,  when  all  the  guardian 
deities  of  mankind  abandoned  the  world,  Hope  alone  was  left  behind 
—  the  consolations  of  this  passion  in  situations  of  danger  and  distress 
— the  seaman  on  his  watch  —  the  soldier  marching  into  battle — 
allusion  to  the  interesting  adventures  of  Byron. 

The  inspiration  of  Hope,  as  it  actuates  the  efforts  of  genius, 
whether  in  the  department  of  science,  or  of  taste — domestic  felicity, 
how  intimately  connected  with  views  of  future  happiness—  picture 
of  a  mother  watching  her  infant  when  asleep — pictures  of  the  prisoner, 
the  maniac,  and  the  wanderer. 

From  the  consolations  of  individual  misery  a  transition  is  made 
to  prospects  of  political  improvement  in  the  future  state  of  society — 
the  wide  field  that  is  yet  open  for  the  progress  of  humanising  arts 
among  uncivilised  nations — from  these  views  of  amelioration  of 
society,  and  the  extension  of  liberty  and  truth  over  despotic  and 
barbarous  countries,  by  a  melancholy  contrast  of  ideas,  we  are  led 
to  reflect  upon  the  hard  fate  of  a  brave  people  recently  conspicuous 
in  their  struggles  for  independence — description  of  the  capture  of 
Warsaw,  of  the  last  contest  of  the  oppressors  and  the  oppressed, 
and  the  massacre  of  the  Polish  patriots  at  the  bridge  of  Prague- 
apostrophe  to  the  self-interested  enemies  of  human  improvement — 
the  wrongs  of  Africa — the  barbarous  policy  of  Europeans  in  India 

15 


16  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

— prophecy  in  the  Hindoo  mythology  of  the  expected  descent  of  the 
Deity  to  redress  the  miseries  of  their  race,  and  to  take  vengeance 
on  the  violators  of  justice  and  mercy. 

AT  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow 

Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below 

Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 

Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky  ? 

Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 

More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  ? — 

"Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 

And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 

Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey 

The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way  ;  10 

Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discover'd  scene 

More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been, 

And  every  form,  that  Fancy  can  repair 

From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 

What  potent  spirit  guides  the  raptured  eye 
To  pierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity  ? 
Can  Wisdom  lend,  with  all  her  heavenly  power, 
The  pledge  of  Joy's  anticipated  hour  ? 
Ah,  no  !  she  darkly  sees  the  fate  of  man — 
Her  dim  horizon  bounded  to  a  span  ;  20 

Or,  if  she  hold  an  image  to  the  view, 
'Tis  Nature  pictured  too  severely  true. 
With  thee,  sweet  HOPE  !  resides  the  heavenly  light, 
That  pours  remotest  rapture  on  the  sight : 
Thine  is  the  charm  of  life's  bewilder'd  way, 
That  calls  each  slumbering  passion  into  play. 
Waked  by  thy  touch,  I  see  the  sister-band, 
On  tiptoe  watching,  start  at  thy  command, 
And  fly  where'er  thy  mandate  bids  them  steer, 
To  Pleasure's  path,  or  Glory's  bright  career.  30 

Primeval  HOPE,  the  Aonian  Muses  say, 
When  Man  and  Nature  mourn'd  their  first  decay  ; 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  17 

When  every  form  of  death,  and  every  woe, 

Shot  from  malignant  stars  to  earth  below  ; 

When  Murder  bared  her  arm,  and  rampant  War 

Yoked  the  red  dragons  of  her  iron  car  ; 

When  Peace  and  Mercy,  banish'd  from  the  plain, 

Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  Heaven  again  ; 

All,  all  forsook  the  friendless,  guilty  mind, 

But  HOPE,  the  charmer,  linger'd  still  behind.  40 

Thus,  while  Elijah's  burning  wheels  prepare 
From  Carmel's  heights  to  sweep  the  fields  of  air, 
The  prophet's  mantle,  ere  his  flight  began, 
Dropt  on  the  world — a  sacred  gift  to  man. 

Auspicious  HOPE  !  in  thy  sweet  garden  grow 
Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  every  woe  ; 
Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's  languid  hour, 
The  way-worn  pilgrim  seeks  thy  summer  bower  ; 
There,  as  the  wild  bee  murmurs  on  the  wing, 
What  peaceful  dreams  thy  handmaid  spirits  bring  !         50 
What  viewless  forms  th'  JEolian  organ  play, 
And  sweep  the  furrow'd  lines  of  anxious  thought  away. 

Angel  of  life  !  thy  glittering  wings  explore 
Earth's  loneliest  bounds,  and  Ocean's  wildest  shore. 
Lo  !  to  the  wintry  winds  the  pilot  yields 
His  bark  careering  o'er  unfathom'd  fields  ; 
Now  on  Atlantic  waves  he  rides  afar, 
Where  Andes,  giant  of  the  western  star, 
With  meteor-standard  to  the  winds  unfurl'd, 
Looks  from  his  throne  of  clouds  o'er  half  the  world  !      60 

Now  far  he  sweeps,  where  scarce  a  summer  smiles, 
On  Behring's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked  isles: 
Cold  on  his  midnight  watch  the  breezes  blow, 
From  wastes  that  slumber  in  eternal  snow  ; 
And  waft,  across  the  waves'  tumultuous  roar, 
The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore. 

c 


i8  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

Poor  child  of  danger,  nursling  of  the  storm, 
Sad  are  the  woes  that  wreck  thy  manly  form  ! 
Rocks,  waves,  and  winds,  the  shatter'd  bark  delay  ; 
Thy  heart  is  sad,  thy  home  is  far  away.  70 

But  HOPE  can  here  her  moonlight  vigils  keep, 
And  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep  : 
Swift  as  yon  streamer  lights  the  starry  pole, 
Her  visions  warm  the  watchman's  pensive  soul ; 
His  native  hills  that  rise  in  happier  climes, 
The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times, 
His  cottage  home,  his  bark  of  slender  sail, 
His  glassy  lake,  and  broom  wood  -blossonvd  vale, 
Rush  on  his  thought ;  he  sweeps  before  the  wind, 
Treads  the  loved  shore  he  sigh'd  to  leave  behind  ;          80 
Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  flies  at  last  to  Helen's  long  embrace  ; 
Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture-speaking  tear  ! 
And  clasps,  with  many  a  sigh,  his  children  clear  ! 
While,  long  neglected,  but  at  length  caress'd, 
His  faithful  dog  salutes  the  smiling  guest, 
Points  to  the  master's  eyes  (where'er  they  roam) 
His  wistful  face,  and  whines  a  welcome  home. 

Friend  of  the  brave  !  in  peril's  darkest  hour, 
Intrepid  Virtue  looks  to  thee  for  power  ;  90 

To  thee  the  heart  its  trembling  homage  yields, 
On  stormy  floods,  and  carnage-cover'd  fields, 
When  front  to  front  the  banner'd  hosts  combine, 
Halt  ere  they  close,  and  form  the  dreadful  line. 
When  all  is  still  on  Death's  devoted  soil, 
The  march-worn  soldier  mingles  for  the  toil ; 
As  rings  his  glittering  tube,  he  lifts  on  high 
The  dauntless  brow,  and  spirit -speaking  eye, 
Hails  in  his  heart  the  triumph  yet  to  come, 
And  hears  thy  stormy  music  in  the  drum  !  100 

And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  bore 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  19 

The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore — 

In  horrid  climes,  where  Chiloe's  tempests  sweep 

Tumultuous  murmurs  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 

'Twas  his  to  mourn  Misfortune's  rudest  shock, 

Scourged  by  the  winds,  and  cradled  on  the  rock, 

To  wake  each  joyless  morn  and  search  again 

The  famish'd  haunts  of  solitary  men  ; 

Whose  race,  unyielding  as  their  native  storm, 

Know  not  a  trace  of  Nature  but  the  form  ;  no 

Yet,  at  thy  call,  the  hardy  tar  pursued, 

Pale,  but  intrepid,  sad,  but  unsubdued, 

Pierced  the  deep  woods,  and  hailing  from  afar 

The  moon's  pale  planet  and  the  northern  star, 

Paused  at  each  dreary  cry  unheard  before, 

Hyaenas  in  the  wild,  and  mermaids  on  the  shore  ; 

Till,  led  by  thee  o'er  many  a  cliff  sublime, 

He  found  a  warmer  world,  a  milder  clime, 

A  home  to  rest,  a  shelter  to  defend, 

Peace  and  repose,  a  Briton  and  a  friend  !  120 

Congenial  HOPE  !  thy  passion-kindling  power, 
How  bright,  how  strong,  in  youth's  untroubled  hour  ! 
On  yon  proud  height,  with  Genius  hand-in-hand, 
I  see  thee  light,  and  wave  thy  golden  wand. 

"  Go,  child  of  Heaven  !"  (thy  winged  words  proclaim) 
"  'Tis  thine  to  search  the  boundless  fields  of  fame  ! 
Lo  !  Newton,  priest  of  Nature,  shines  afar, 
Scans  the  wide  world,  and  numbers  every  star  ! 
Wilt  thou,  with  him,  mysterious  rites  apply, 
And  watch  the  shrine  with  wonder-beaming  eye  ?          130 
Yes,  thou  shall  mark,  with  magic  art  profound, 
The  speed  of  light,  the  circling  march  of  sound  ; 
With  Franklin  grasp  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heaven  another  string. 

"The  Swedish  sage  admires,  in  yonder  bowers, 


20  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

His  winged  insects,  and  his  rosy  flowers  ; 
Calls  from  their  woodland  haunts  the  savage  train, 
With  sounding  horn,  and  counts  them  on  the  plain — 
So  once,  at  Heaven's  command,  the  wanderers  came 
To  Eden's  shade,  and  heard  their  various  name.  140 

"  Far  from  the  world,  in  yon  sequester'd  clime, 
Slow  pass  the  sons  of  Wisdom,  more  sublime  ; 
Calm  as  the  fields  of  Heaven,  his  sapient  eye 
The  loved  Athenian  lifts  to  realms  on  high, 
Admiring  Plato,  on  his  spotless  page, 
Stamps  the  bright  dictates  of  the  Father  sage  : 
'  Shall  Nature  bound  to  Earth's  diurnal  span 
The  fire  of  God,  th'  immortal  soul  of  man  ? ' 

"  Turn,  child  of  Heaven,  thy  rapture-lighten'd  eye 
To  Wisdom's  walks  ;  the  sacred  Nine  are  nigh  :  130 

Hark  !  from  bright  spires  that  gild  the  Delphian  height, 
From  streams  that  wander  in  eternal  light, 
Ranged  on  their  hill,  Harmonia's  daughters  swell 
The  mingling  tones  of  horn,  and  harp,  and  shell ; 
Deep  from  his  vaults  the  Loxian  murmurs  flow, 
And  Pythia's  awful  organ  peals  below. 

"  Beloved  of  Heaven  !  the  smiling  Muse  shall  shed 
Her  moonlight  halo  on  thy  beauteous  head  ; 
Shall  swell  thy  heart  to  rapture  unconfined, 
And  breathe  a  holy  madness  o'er  thy  mind.  160 

I  see  thee  roam  her  guardian  power  beneath, 
And  talk  with  spirits  on  the  midnight  heath  j 
Enquire  of  guilty  wanderers  whence  they  came, 
And  ask  each  blood-stain'd  form  his  earthly  name ; 
Then  weave  in  rapid  verse  the  deeds  they  tell, 
And  read  the  trembling  world  the  tales  of  hell. 

"  When  Venus,  throned  in  clouds  of  rosy  hue, 
Flings  from  her  golden  urn  the  vesper  dew, 
And  bids  fond  man  her  glimmering  noon  employ, 
Sacred  to  love,  and  walks  of  tender  joy  ;  170 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  21 

A  milder  mood  the  goddess  shall  recall, 
And  soft  as  dew  thy  tones  of  music  fall ; 
While  Beauty's  deeply-pictured  smiles  impart 
A  pang  more  dear  than  pleasure  to  the  heart — 
Warm  as  thy  sighs  shall  flow  the  Lesbian  strain, 
And  plead  in  Beauty's  ear,  nor  plead  in  vain. 

"  Or  wilt  thou  Orphean  hymns  more  sacred  deem, 
And  steep  thy  song  in  Mercy's  mellow  stream  ; 
To  pensive  drops  the  radiant  eye  beguile — 
For  Beauty's  tears  are  lovelier  than  her  smile  ; —  i8c 

On  Nature's  throbbing  anguish  pour  relief, 
And  teach  impassion'd  souls  the  joy  of  grief  ? 

"Yes  ;  to  thy  tongue  shall  seraph  words  be  given, 
And  power  on  earth  to  plead  the  cause  of  Heaven  ; 
The  proud,  the  cold  untroubled  heart  of  stone, 
That  never  mused  on  sorrow  but  its  own, 
Unlocks  a  generous  store  at  thy  command, 
Like  Horeb's  rocks  beneath  the  prophet's  hand. 
The  living  lumber  of  his  kindred  earth, 
Charm'd  into  soul,  receives  a  second  birth,  190 

Feels  thy  dread  power  another  heart  afford, 
Whose  passion-touch'd  harmonious  strings  accord 
True  as  the  circling  spheres  to  Nature's  plan  ; 
And  man,  the  brother,  lives  the  friend  of  man. 

"  Bright  as  the  pillar  rose  at  Heaven's  command, 
When  Israel  march'd  along  the  desert  land, 
Blazed  through  the  night  on  lonely  wilds  afar. 
And  told  the  path, — a  never-setting  star  : 
So,  heavenly  Genius,  in  thy  course  divine, 
HOPE  is  thy  star,  her  light  is  ever  thine."  200 

Propitious  Power  !  when  rankling  cares  annoy 
The  sacred  home  of  Hymenean  joy  ; 
When  doom'd  to  Poverty's  sequester'd  dell 
The  wedded  pair  of  love  and  virtue  dwell, 


22  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

Unpitied  by  the  world,  unknown  to  fame, 

Their  woes,  their  wishes,  and  their  hearts  the  same — 

Oh,  there,  prophetic  HOPE  !  thy  smile  bestow, 

And  chase  the  pangs  that  worth  should  never  know. — 

There,  as  the  parent  deals  his  scanty  store 

To  friendless  babes,  and  weeps  to  give  no  more,  210 

Tell,  that  his  manly  race  shall  yet  assuage 

Their  father's  wrongs,  and  shield  his  latter  age. 

What  though  for  him  no  Hybla  sweets  distil, 

Nor  bloomy  vines  wave  purple  on  the  hill ; 

Tell,  that  when  silent  years  have  pass'd  away, 

That  when  his  eye  grows  dim,  his  tresses  grey, 

These  busy  hands  a  lovelier  cot  shall  build, 

And  deck  with  fairer  flowers  his  little  field, 

And  call  from  Heaven  propitious  dews  to  breathe 

Arcadian  beauty  on  the  barren  heath  ;  220 

Tell,  that  while  Love's  spontaneous  smile  endears 

The  days  of  peace,  the  sabbath  of  his  years, 

Health  shall  prolong  to  many  a  festive  hour 

The  social  pleasures  of  his  humble  bower. 

Lo  !  at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty  sleeps, 
Her  silent  watch  the  mournful  mother  keeps  ; 
She,  while  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  lies, 
Smiles  on  her  slumbering  child  with  pensive  eyes, 
And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  joy — 
"  Sleep,  image  of  thy  father,  sleep,  my  boy  ;  230 

No  lingering  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine  ; 
No  sigh  that  rends  thy  father's  heart  and  mine  ; 
Bright  as  his  manly  sire  the  son  shall  be 
In  form  and  soul ;  but,  ah  !  more  blest  than  he  ! 
Thy  fame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love  at  last, 
Shall  soothe  his  aching  heart  for  all  the  past — 
With  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 
And  chase  the  world's  ungenerous  scorn  away. 

"  And  say,  when  summon'd  from  the  world  and  thee, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  23 

I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow  tree,  240 

Wilt  than,  sweet  mourner  !  at  my  stone  appear, 

And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering  near  ? 

Oh,  wilt  thou  come  at  evening  hour  to  shed, 

The  tears  of  Memory  o'er  my  narrow  bed  ; 

With  aching  temples  on  thy  hand  reclined, 

Muse  on  the  last  farewell  I  leave  behind, 

Breathe  a  deep  sigh  to  winds  that  murmur  low, 

And  think  on  all  my  love,  and  all  my  woe?" 

So  speaks  affection,  ere  the  infant  eye 
Can  look  regard,  or  brighten  in  reply  ;  250 

But  when  the  cherub  lip  hath  learnt  to  claim 
A  mother's  ear  by  that  endearing  name  ; 
Soon  as  the  playful  innocent  can  prove 
A  tear  of  pity,  or  a  smile  of  love, 
Or  cons  his  murmuring  task  beneath  her  care, 
Or  lisps  with  holy  look  his  evening  prayer, 
Or  gazing,  mutely  pensive,  sits  to  hear 
The  mournful  ballad  warbled  in  his  ear  ; 
How  fondly  looks  admiring  HOPE  the  while, 
At  every  artless  tear,  and  every  smile  ;  260 

How  glows  the  joyous  parent  to  descry 
A  guileless  bosom,  true  to  sympathy  1 

Where  is  the  troubled  heart  consign'd  to  share 
Tumultuous  toils,  or  solitary  care, 
Unblest  by  visionary  thoughts  that  stray 
To  count  the  joys  of  Fortune's  better  day  ! 
Lo  !  nature,  life,  and  liberty  relume 
The  dim-eyed  tenant  of  the  dungeon  gloom, 
A  long-lost  friend,  or  hapless  child  restored, 
Smiles  at  his  blazing  hearth  and  social  board  ;  270 

Warm  from  his  heart  the  tears  of  rapture  flow, 
And  virtue  triumphs  o'er  remember'd  woe. 

Chide  not  his  peace,  proud  Reason  !  nor  destroy 
The  shadowy  forms  of  uncreated  joy, 


24  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

That  urge  the  lingering  tide  of  life,  and  pour 

Spontaneous  slumber  on  his  midnight  hour. 

Hark  !  the  wild  maniac  sings,  to  chide  the  gale 

That  wafts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail ; 

She,  sad  spectatress,  on  the  wintry  shore, 

Watch'd  the  rude  surge  his  shroudless  corse  that  bore,    zto 

Knew  the  pale  form,  and  shrieking  in  amaze, 

Clasp'd  her  cold  hands,  and  fix'd  her  maddening  gaze : 

Poor  widow'd  wretch  ;  'twas  there  she  wept  in  vain, 

Till  Memory  fled  her  agonizing  brain  ; — 

But  Mercy  gave,  to  charm  the  sense  of  woe, 

Ideal  peace,  that  Truth  could  ne'er  bestow  ; 

Warm  on  her  heart  the  joys  of  Fancy  beam, 

And  aimless  HOPE  delights  her  darkest  dream. 

Oft  when  yon  moon  has  climb'd  the  midnight  sky, 
And  the  lone  sea-bird  wakes  its  wildest  cry,  290 

Piled  on  the  steep,  her  blazing  faggots  burn 
To  hail  the  bark  that  never  can  return  ; 
And  still  she  waits,  but  scarce  forbears  to  weep 
That  constant  love  can  linger  on  the  deep. 

And  mark  the  wretch,  whose  wanderings  never  knew 
The  world's  regard,  that  soothes,  though  half  untrue ; 
Whose  erring  heart  the  lash  of  sorrow  bore, 
But  found  not  pity  when  it  err'd  no  more. 
Yon  friendless  man,  at  whose  dejected  eye 
Th'  unfeeling  proud  one  looks — and  passes  by,  3°° 

Condemn'd  on  Penury's  barren  path  to  roam, 
Scorn 'd  by  the  world,  and  left  without  a  home — 
Even  he,  at  evening,  should  he  chance  to  stray 
Down  by  the  hamlet's  hawthorn-scented  way, 
Where  round  the  cot's  romantic  glade  are  seen 
The  blossom'd  bean-field,  and  the  sloping  green, 
Leans  o'er  its  humble  gate,  and  thinks  the  while — 
Oh  !  that  for  me  some  home  like  this  would  smile, 
Some  hamlet  shade,  to  yield  my  sickly  form 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  25 

Health  in  the  breeze,  and  shelter  in  the  storm  !  310 

There  should  my  hand  no  stinted  boon  assign 

To  wretched  hearts  with  sorrow  such  as  mine  ! — 

That  generous  wish  can  soothe  unpitied  care, 

And  HOPE  half  mingles  with  the  poor  man's  prayer. 

HOPE  !  when  I  mourn,  with  sympathizing  mind, 
The  wrongs  of  fate,  the  woes  of  human  kind, 
Thy  blissful  omens  bid  my  spirit  see 
The  boundless  fields  of  rapture  yet  to  be  ; 
I  watch  the  wheels  of  Nature's  mazy  plan, 
And  learn  the  future  by  the  past  of  man.  320 

Come,  bright  Improvement  !  on  the  car  of  Time, 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime  ! 
Thy  handmaid  arts  shall  every  wild  explore, 
Trace  every  wave,  and  culture  every  shore. 
On  Erie's  banks,  where  tigers  steal  along, 
And  the  dread  Indian  chants  a  dismal  song, 
Where  human  fiends  on  midnight  errands  walk, 
And  bathe  in  brains  the  murderous  tomahawk, 
There  shall  the  flocks  on  thymy  pasture  stray, 
And  shepherds  dance  at  Summer's  opening  day ;  330 

Each  wandering  genius  of  the  lonely  glen 
Shall  start  to  view  the  glittering  haunts  of  men, 
And  silent  watch,  on  woodland  heights  around, 
The  village  curfew  as  it  tolls  profound. 

In  Libyan  groves,  where  damned  rites  are  done, 
That  bathe  the  rocks  in  blood,  and  veil  the  sun, 
Truth  shall  arrest  the  murderous  arm  profane, 
Wild  Obi  flies — the  veil  is  rent  in  twain. 

Where  barbarous  hordes  on  Scythian  mountains  roam, 
Truth,  Mercy,  Freedom,  yet  shall  find  a  home ;  340 

Where'er  degraded  Nature  bleeds  and  pines, 
From  Guinea's  coast  to  Sibir's  dreary  mines, 
Truth  shall  pervade  th'  unfathom'd  darkness  there, 


26  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

And  light  the  dreadful  features  of  despair. — 
Hark  !  the  stern  captive  spurns  his  heavy  load, 
And  asks  the  image  back  that  Heaven  bestow'd  ! 
Fierce  in  his  eye  the  fire  of  valour  burns, 
And  as  the  slave  departs,  the  man  returns. 

O  sacred  Truth  !  thy  triumph  ceased  awhile, 
And  HOPE,  thy  sister,  ceased  witli  thee  to  smile,  350 

When  leagued  Oppression  pour'd  to  Northern  wars 
Her  whisker'd  pandoors  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Peal'd  her  loud  drum,  and  twang'd  her  trumpet  horn  ; 
Tumultuous  Horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man  ! 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  survey'd, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid,  — 
"  O  Heaven  ! "  he  cried,  "  my  bleeding  country  save  ! — 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave  ?  360 

Vet,  though  destruction  sweep  those  lovely  plains, 
Rise,  fellow-men  !  our  country  yet  remains  ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high  ! 
And  swear  for  her  to  live  !— with  her  to  die  ! " 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  array'd 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismay'd  ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm  ; 
Low  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly. 
Revenge,  or  death, — the  watchword  and  reply  ;  370 

Then  peal'd  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  toll'd  their  last  alarm  !-— 

In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few  ! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volley'd  thunder  flew  : — 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime  ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  27 

Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe  ! 
Dropp'd  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shatter'd  spear. 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curb'd  her  high  career  ; —  380 
HOPE,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shriek'd — as  KOSCIUSKO  fell ! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage  there, 
Tumultuous  Murder  shook  the  midnight  air — 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow, 
His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below  ; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  a  way, 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay  ! 
Hark,  as  the  smouldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call !  39*1 

Earth  shook — red  meteors  flash'd  along  the  sky, 
And  conscious  Nature  shudder'd  at  the  cry  ! 

Oh  !  righteous  Heaven  ;  ere  Freedom  found  a  grave, 
Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save  ? 
Where  was  thine  arm,  O  Vengeance  !  where  thy  rod, 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God  ; 
That  crush'd  proud  Ammon,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoked  in  wrath,  and  thunder'd  from  afar  ? 
Where  was  the  storm  that  slumber'd  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stain'd  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling  coast :     400 
Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow, 
And  heaved  an  ocean  on  their  march  below  ? 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled  ! 
Friends  of  the  world  !  restore  your  swords  to  man, 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van  ! 
Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  atone, 
And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own  ! 
Oh  !  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return 
The  patriot  TELL — the  BRUCE  OF  BANNOCKBURN  !     410 

Yes  !  thy  proud  lords,  unpitied  land  !  shall  see 
That  man  hath  yet  a  soul — and  dare  be  free  ! 


28  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

A  little  while,  along  thy  saddening  plains, 
The  starless  night  of  Desolation  reigns  ; 
Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  Nature  given, 
And,  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  Heaven  ! 
Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurl'd, 
Her  name,  her  nature,  wither'd  from  the  world  ! 

Ye  that  the  rising  morn  invidious  mark, 
And  hate  the  light — because  your  deeds  are  dark  ;        420 
Ye  that  expanding  truth  invidious  view, 
And  think,  or  wish,  the  song  of  HOPE  untrue  ; 
Perhaps  your  little  hands  presume  to  span 
The  march  of  Genius  and  the  powers  of  man  ; 
Perhaps  ye  watch,  at  Pride's  unhallow'd  shrine, 
Her  victims,  newly  slain,  and  thus  divine  : — 
"  Here  shall  thy  triumph,  Genius,  cease,  and  here 
Truth,  Science,  Virtue,  close  your  short  career." 

Tyrants  !  in  vain  ye  trace  the  wizard  ring ; 
In  vain  ye  limit  Mind's  unwearied  spring :  430 

What !  can  ye  lull  the  winged  winds  asleep, 
Arrest  the  rolling  world,  or  chain  the  deep  ? 
No  ! — the  wild  wave  contemns  your  sceptred  hand  : 
It  roll'd  not  back  when  Canute  gave  command  ! 

Man  !  can  thy  doom  no  brighter  soul  allow  ? 
Still  must  thou  live  a  blot  on  Nature's  brow  ? 
Shall  War's  polluted  banner  ne'er  be  furl'd  ? 
Shall  crimes  and  tyrants  cease  but  with  the  world  ? 
What  !  are  thy  triumphs,  sacred  Truth,  belied  ? 
Why  then  hath  Plato  lived — or  Sidney  died  ? —  440 

Ye  fond  adorers  of  departed  fame, 
Who  warm  at  Scipio's  worth,  or  Tully's  name  ! 
Ye  that,  in  fancied  vision,  can  admire 
The  sword  of  Brutus,  and  the  Theban  lyre  ! 
Rapt  in  historic  ardour,  who  adore 
Each  classic  haunt,  and  well-remember'd  shore, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  29 

Where  Valour  tuned,  amidst  her  chosen  throng, 

The  Thracian  trumpet,  and  the  Spartan  song  ; 

Or,  wandering  thence,  behold  the  later  charms 

Of  England's  glory,  and  Helvetia's  arms  !  450 

See  Roman  fire  in  Hampden's  bosom  swell, 

And  fate  and  freedom  in  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 

Say,  ye  fond  zealots  to  the  worth  of  yore, 

Hath  valour  left  the  world — to  live  no  more  ? 

No  more  shall  Brutus  bid  a  tyrant  die, 

And  sternly  smile  with  vengeance  in  his  eye  ? 

Hampden  no  more,  when  suffering  Freedom  calls, 

Encounter  Fate,  and  triumph  as  he  falls? 

Nor  Tell  disclose,  through  peril  and  alarm, 

The  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm  ?  460 

Yes  !  in  that  generous  cause,  for  ever  strong, 
The  patriot's  virtue  and  the  poet's  song 
Still,  as  the  tide  of  ages  rolls  away, 
Shall  charm  the  world,  unconscious  of  decay  ! 

Yes  !  there  are  hearts,  prophetic  HOPE  may  trust, 
That  slumber  yet  in  uncreated  dust, 
Ordain'd  to  fire  th'  adoring  sons  of  earth 
With  every  charm  of  wisdom  and  of  worth  ; 
Ordain'd  to  light,  with  intellectual  day, 
The  mazy  wheels  of  Nature  as  they  play,  470 

Or,  warm  with  Fancy's  energy,  to  glow, 
And  rival  all  but  Shakespeare's  name  below. 

And  say,  supernal  Powers  !  who  deeply  scan 
Heaven's  dark  decrees,  unfathom'd  yet  by  man, 
When  shall  the  world  call  down,  to  cleanse  her  shame, 
That  embryo  spirit,  yet  without  a  name, — 
That  friend  of  Nature,  whose  avenging  hands 
Shall  burst  the  Libyan's  adamantine  bands  ? 
Who,  sternly  marking  on  his  native  soil 
The  blood,  the  tears,  the  anguish,  and  the  toil,  480 

Shall  bid  each  righteous  heart  exult  to  see 


30  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

Peace  to  the  slave,  and  vengeance  on  the  free  ! 

Yet,  yet,  degraded  men  !  th'  expected  day 
That  breaks  your  bitter  cup,  is  far  away  ; 
Trade,  wealth,  and  fashion,  ask  you  still  to  bleed, 
And  holy  men  give  Scripture  for  the  deed  ; 
Scourged,  and  debased,  no  Briton  stoops  to  save 
A  wretch,  a  coward  ;  yes,  because  a  slave  ! — 

Eternal  Nature  !  when  thy  giant  hand 
Had  heaved  the  floods,  and  fix'd  the  trembling  land,    490 
When  life  sprang  startling  at  thy  plastic  call, 
Endless  her  forms,  and  man  the  lord  of  all ! 
Say,  was  that  lordly  form  inspired  by  thee, 
To  wear  eternal  chains  and  bow  the  knee  ? 
Was  man  ordain'd  the  slave  of  man  to  toil, 
Yoked  with  the  brutes,  and  fetter'd  to  the  soil ; 
Weigh'd  in  a  tyrant's  balance  with  his  gold  ? 
No  ! — Nature  stamp'd  us  in  a  heavenly  mould  ! 
She  bade  no  wretch  his  thankless  labour  urge, 
Nor,  trembling,  take  the  pittance  and  the  scourge  !       500 
No  homeless  Libyan,  on  the  stormy  deep, 
To  call  upon  his  country's  name,  and  weep  ! — 

Lo  !  once  in  triumph,  on  his  boundless  plain, 
The  quiver'd  chief  of  Congo  loved  to  reign  ; 
With  fires  proportion'd  to  his  native  sky, 
Strength  in  his  arm,  and  lightning  in  his  eye  ; 
Scour'd  with  wild  feet  his  sun-illumined  zone, 
The  spear,  the  lion,  and  the  woods,  his  own  ! 
Or  led  the  combat,  bold  without  a  plan, 
An  artless  savage,  but  a  fearless  man  !  510 

The  plunderer  came  ! — alas !  no  glory  smiles 
For  Congo's  chief  on  yonder  Indian  isles  ; 
For  ever  fall'n  !  no  son  of  Nature  now, 
With  Freedom  charter'd  on  his  manly  brow  ; 
Faint,  bleeding,  bound,  he  weeps  the  night  away, 
And  when  the  sea-wind  wafts  the  dewless  day, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  31 

Starts,  with  a  bursting  heart,  for  evermore 
To  curse  the  sun  that  lights  their  guilty  shore  ! 

The  shrill  horn  blew  ;  at  that  alarum  knell 
His  guardian  angel  took  a  last  farewell  !  520 

That  funeral  dirge  to  darkness  hath  resign'd 
The  fiery  grandeur  of  a  generous  mind  ! 
Poor  fetter'd  man  !  I  hear  thee  whispering  low 
Unhallow'd  vows  to  Guilt,  the  child  of  Woe, 
Friendless  thy  heart  ;  and  canst  thou  harbour  there 
A  wish  but  death — a  passion  but  despair  ? 

The  widow'd  Indian,  when  her  lord  expires, 
Mounts  the  dread  pile,  and  braves  the  funeral  fires  ! 
So  falls  the  heart  at  Thraldom's  bitter  sigh  ! 
So  Virtue  dies,  the  spouse  of  Liberty  !  530 

But  not  to  Libya's  barren  climes  alone, 
To  Chili,  or  the  wild  Siberian  zone, 
Belong  the  wretched  heart  and  haggard  eye, 
Degraded  worth,  and  poor  misfortune's  sigh  ! — 
Ye  orient  realms,  where  Ganges'  waters  run  ! 
Prolific  fields  !  dominions  of  the  sun  ! 
How  long  your  tribes  have  trembled  and  obey'd  ! 
How  long  was  Timour's  iron  sceptre  sway'd, 
Whose  marshall'd  hosts,  the  lions  of  the  plain, 
From  Scythia's  northern  mountains  to  the  main,  540 

Raged  o'er  your  plunder'd  shrines  and  altars  bare, 
With  blazing  torch  and  gory  scimitar, — 
Stunn'd  with  the  cries  of  death  each  gentle  gale, 
And  bathed  in  blood  the  verdure  of  the  vale  ! 
Yet  could  no  pangs  the  immortal  spirit  tame, 
When  Brama's  children  perish'd  for  his  name  ; 
The  martyr  smiled  beneath  avenging  power, 
And  braved  the  tyrant  in  his  torturing  hour  ! 

When  Europe  sought  your  subject  realms  to  gain, 
And  stretch'd  her  giant  sceptre  o'er  the  main  ;  550 


32  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

Taught  her  proud  barks  the  winding  way  to  shape, 

And  braved  the  stormy  Spirit  of  the  Cape  : 

Children  of  Brama  !  then  was  Mercy  nigh 

To  wash  the  stain  of  blood's  eternal  dye  ? 

Did  Peace  descend  to  triumph  and  to  save, 

When  freeborn  Britons  cross'd  the  Indian  wave? 

Ah,  no  ! — to  more  than  Rome's  ambition  true, 

The  Nurse  of  Freedom  gave  it  not  to  you  ! 

She  the  bold  route  of  Europe's  guilt  began, 

And,  in  the  march  of  nations,  led  the  van  !  560 

Rich  in  the  gems  of  India's  gaudy  zone, 
And  plunder  piled  from  kingdoms  not  their  own, 
Degenerate  trade  !  thy  minions  could  despise 
The  heart-born  anguish  of  a  thousand  cries  ; 
Could  lock,  with  impious  hands,  their  teeming  store, 
While  famish'd  nations  died  along  the  shore  : 
Could  mock  the  groans  of  fellow-men,  and  bear 
The  curse  of  kingdoms  peopled  with  despair  ; 
Could  stamp  disgrace  on  man's  polluted  name, 
And  barter,  with  their  gold,  eternal  shame  !  570 

But  hark  !  as  bow'd  to  earth  the  Bramin  kneels, 
From  heavenly  climes  propitious  thunder  peals  ! 
Of  India's  fate  her  guardian  spirits  tell, 
Prophetic  murmurs  breathing  on  the  shell, 
And  solemn  sounds,  that  awe  the  listening  mind, 
Roll  on  the  azure  paths  of  every  wind. 

"  Foes  of  mankind  !  "  (her  guardian  spirits  say) 
"  Revolving  ages  bring  the  bitter  day, 
When  Heaven's  unerring  arm  shall  fall  on  you, 
And  blood  for  blood  these  Indian  plains  bedew  ;  580 

Nine  times  have  Brama's  wheels  of  lightning  hurl'd 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world  ; 
Nine  times  hath  Guilt,  through  all  his  giant  frame, 
Convulsive  trembled,  as  the  Mighty  came  ; 
Nine  times  hath  suffering  Mercy  spared  in  vain — 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  33 

But  Heaven  shall  burst  her  starry  gates  again  ! 
He  comes  !  dread  Brama  shakes  the  sunless  sky 
With  murmuring  wrath,  and  thunders  from  on  high  ; 
Heaven's  fiery  horse,  beneath  his  warrior  form, 
Paws  the  light  clouds  and  gallops  on  the  storm  !  590 

Wide  waves  his  flickering  sword ;  his  bright  arms  glow 
Like  summer  suns,  and  light  the  world  below  ! 
Earth,  and  her  trembling  isles  in  Ocean's  bed, 
Are  shook  ;  and  Nature  rocks  beneath  his  tread  ! 

"To  pour  redress  on  India's  injured  realm, 
The  oppressor  to  dethrone,  the  proud  to  whelm  ; 
To  chase  destruction  from  her  plunder'd  shore 
With  hearts  and  arms  that  triumph'd  once  before, 
The  tenth  Avatar  comes  !  at  Heaven's  command 
Shall  Seriswattee  wave  her  hallow'd  wand  !  600 

And  Camdeo  bright,  and  Ganesa  sublime, 
Shall  bless  with  joy  their  own  propitious  clime  ! — 
Come,  Heavenly  Powers  !  primeval  peace  restore  ! 
Love  ! — Mercy  ! — Wisdom  ! — rule  for  evermore  ! " 


PART   THE   SECOND 

ANALYSIS 

APOSTROPHE  to  the  power  of  Love — its  intimate  connection  with 
generous  and  social  Sensibility — allusion  to  that  beautiful  passage  in 
the  beginning  of  the  book  of  Genesis,  which  represents  the  happiness 
of  Paradise  itself  incomplete,  till  love  was  superadded  to  its  other 
blessings — the  dreams  of  future  felicity  which  a  lively  imagination  is 
apt  to  cherish,  when  Hope  is  animated  by  refined  attachment — this 
disposition  to  combine,  in  one  imaginary  scene  of  residence,  all  that 
is  pleasing  in  our  estimate  of  happiness,  compared  to  the  skill  of  the 
great  artist  who  personified  perfect  beauty,  in  the  picture  of  Venus, 
by  an  assemblage  of  the  most  beautiful  features  he  could  find — a 
summer  and  winter  evening  described,  as  they  may  be  supposed  to 
arise  in  the  mind  of  one  who  wishes,  with  enthusiasm,  for  the  union 
of  friendship  and  retirement. 

Hope  and  Imagination  inseparable  agents — even  in  those  contem- 

D 


34  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

plative  moments  when  our  imagination  wanders  beyond  the  bound- 
aries of  this  world,  our  minds  are  not  unattended  with  an  impression 
that  we  shall  some  day  have  a  wider  and  more  distinct  prospect  of 
the  universe,  instead  of  the  partial  glimpse  we  now  enjoy. 

The  last  and  most  sublime  influence  of  Hope  is  the  concluding 
topic  of  the  poem — the  predominance  of  a  belief  in  a  future  state  over 
the  terrors  attendant  on  dissolution — the  baneful  influence  of  that 
sceptical  philosophy  which  bars  us  from  such  comforts — allusion  to 
the  fate  of  a  suicide — episode  of  Conrad  and  Ellenore — conclusion. 

IN  joyous  youth,  what  soul  hath  never  known 

Thought,  feeling,  taste,  harmonious  to  its  own  ? 

Who  hath  not  paused  while  Beauty's  pensive  eye 

Ask'd  from  his  heart  the  homage  of  a  sigh  ? 

Who  hath  not  own'd,  with  rapture-smitten  frame, 

The  power  of  grace,  the  magic  of  a  name  ?  610 

There  be,  perhaps,  who  barren  hearts  avow, 
Cold  as  the  rocks  on  Torneo's  hoary  brow  ; 
There  be,  whose  loveless  wisdom  never  fail'd, 
In  self-adoring  pride  securely  mail'd  : — 
But  triumph  not,  ye  peace- enamour' d  few  ! 
Fire,  Nature,  Genius,  never  dwelt  with  you  ! 
For  you  no  fancy  consecrates  the  scene 
Where  rapture  utter'd  vows,  and  wept  between  , 
'Tis  yours,  unmoved,  to  sever  and  to  meet ; 
No  pledge  is  sacred,  and  no  home  is  sweet  !  620 

Who  that  would  ask  a  heart  to  dulness  wed, 
The  waveless  calm,  the  slumber  of  the  dead  ? 
No  ;  the  wild  bliss  of  Nature  needs  alloy, 
And  fear  and  sorrow  fan  the  fire  of  joy  ! 
And  say,  without  our  hopes,  without  our  fears, 
Without  the  home  that  plighted  love  endears, 
Without  the  smile  from  partial  beauty  won, 
Oh  !  what  were  man  ? — a  world  without  a  sun. 

Till  Hymen  brought  his  love-delighted  hour, 
There  dwelt  no  joy  in  "Eden's  rosy  bower  !  630 

In  vain  the  viewless  seraph  lingering  there 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  35 

At  starry  midnight  charm'd  the  silent  air  ; 

In  vain  the  wild  bird  carolFd  on  the  steep, 

To  hail  the  sun,  slow  wheeling  from  the  deep  ; 

In  vain,  to  soothe  the  solitary  shade, 

Aerial  notes  in  mingling  measure  play'd  ; 

The  summer  wind  that  shook  the  spangled  tree, 

The  whispering  wave,  the  murmur  of  the  bee  ; — 

Still  slowly  pass'd  the  melancholy  day, 

And  still  the  stranger  wist  not  where  to  stray.  640 

The  world  was  sad  ! — the  garden  was  a  wild  ! 

And  man,  the  hermit,  sigh'd — till  woman  smiled  ! 

True,  the  sad  power  to  generous  hearts  may  bring 
Delirious  anguish  on  his  fiery  wing  ; 
Barr'd  from  delight  by  Fate's  untimely  hand, 
By  wealthless  lot,  or  pitiless  command  ; 
Or  doom'd  to  gaze  on  beauties  that  adorn 
The  smile  of  triumph  or  the  frown  of  scorn  ; 
While  Memory  watches  o'er  the  sad  review 
Of  joys  that  faded  like  the  morning  dew  ;  650 

Peace  may  depart — and  life  and  nature  seem 
A  barren  path,  a  wildness,  and  a  dream  ! 

But  can  the  noble  mind  for  ever  brood, 
The  willing  victim  of  a  weary  mood, 
On  heartless  cares  that  squander  life  away, 
And  cloud  young  Genius  brightening  into  day  ? — 
Shame  to  the  coward  thought  that  e'er  betray'd 
The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade  ! — 
If  HOPE'S  creative  spirit  cannot  raise 
One  trophy  sacred  to  thy  future  days,  660 

Scorn  the  dull  crowd  that  haunt  the  gloomy  shrine 
Of  hopeless  love,  to  murmur  and  repine  ! 
But,  should  a  sigh  of  milder  mood  express 
Thy  heart-warm  wishes,  true  to  happiness, 
Should  Heaven's  fair  harbinger  delight  to  pour 
Her  blissful  visions  on  thy  pensive  hour, 


36  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

No  tear  to  blot  thy  memory's  pictured  page, 

No  fears  but  such  as  fancy  can  assuage  ; 

Though  thy  wild  heart  some  hapless  hour  may  miss 

The  peaceful  tenor  of  unvaried  bliss,  670 

(For  love  pursues  an  ever-devious  race, 

True  to  the  winding  lineaments  of  grace) ; 

Yet  still  may  HOPE  her  talisman  employ 

To  snatch  from  Heaven  anticipated  joy, 

And  all  her  kindred  energies  impart 

That  burn  the  brightest  in  the  purest  heart. 

When  first  the  Rhodian's  mimic  art  array'd 
The  Queen  of  Beauty  in  her  Cyprian  shade, 
The  happy  master  mingled  on  his  piece 
Each  look  that  charm'd  him  in  the  fair  of  Greece.         680 
To  faultless  Nature  true,  he  stole  a  grace 
From  every  finer  form  and  sweeter  face ; 
And  as  he  sojourn'd  on  the  ^gean  isles, 
Woo'd  all  their  love,  and  treasured  all  their  smiles  ; 
Then  glow'd  the  tints,  pure,  precious,  and  refined, 
And  mortal  charms  seem'd  heavenly  when  combined  ! 
Love  on  the  picture  smiled  !  Expression  pour'd 
Her  mingling  spirit  there — and  Greece  adored  ! 

So  thy  fair  hand,  enamour'd  Fancy  !  gleans 
The  treasured  pictures  of  a  thousand  scenes  ;  690 

Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lovers  thought 
Some  cottage-home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote, 
Where  love  and  lore  may  claim  alternate  hours, 
With  Peace  embosom'd  in  Idalian  bowers  ! 
Remote  from  busy  Life's  bewilder'd  way, 
O'er  all  his  heart  shall  Taste  and  Beauty  sway  ! 
Free  on  the  sunny  slope,  or  winding  shore, 
With  hermit  steps  to  wander  and  adore  ! 
There  shall  he  love,  when  genial  morn  appears, 
Like  pensive  Beauty  smiling  in  her  tears,  700 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  37 

To  watch  the  brightening  roses  of  the  sky, 

And  muse  on  Nature  with  a  poet's  eye  ! — 

And  when  the  sun's  last  splendour  lights  the  deep, 

The  woods  and  waves,  and  murmuring  winds  asleep  ; 

When  fairy  harps  th'  Hesperian  planet  hail, 

And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale, 

His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains  swell 

Their  shadowy  grandeur  o'er  the  narrow  dell, 

Where  mouldering  piles  and  forests  intervene, 

Mingling  with  darker  tints  the  living  green  ;  710 

No  circling  hills  his  ravish'd  eye  to  bound, 

Heaven,  Earth,  and  Ocean,  blazing  all  around. 

The  moon  is  up — the  watch-tower  dimly  burns — 
And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns  ; 
But  pauses  oft,  as  winding  rocks  convey 
The  still  sweet  fall  of  music  far  away ; 
And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awhile 
To  watch  the  dying  notes  ! — and  start,  and  smile  ! 

Let  Winter  come  !  let  polar  spirits  sweep 
The  darkening  world,  and  tempest-troubled  deep  !        720 
Though  boundless  snows  the  wither'd  heath  deform, 
And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the  storm, 
Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay, 
With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day  ! 
And,  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon  is  o'er, 
The  ice-chain'd  waters  slumbering  on  the  shore, 
How  bright  the  faggots  in  his  little  hall 
Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictured  wall  ! 

How  blest  he  names,  in  Love's  familiar  tone, 
The  kind  fair  friend,  by  nature  mark'd  his  own  ;  730 

And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind, 
Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind, 
Since  when  her  empire  o'er  his  heart  began  ! 
Since  first  he  call'd  her  his  before  the  holy  man  ! 


38  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome, 
And  light  the  wintry  paradise  of  home  ; 
And  let  the  half-uncurtain'd  window  hail 
Some  way-worn  man  benighted  in  the  vale  ! 
Now,  while  the  moaning  night- wind  rages  high, 
As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled  sky,  740 

While  fiery  hosts  in  Heaven's  wide  circle  play, 
And  bathe  in  lurid  light  the  milky-way, 
Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and  the  shower, 
Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn  hour — 
With  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit  beguile, 
A  generous  tear  of  anguish,  or  a  smile — 
Thy  woes,  Arion  !  and  thy  simple  tale, 
O'er  all  the  heart  shall  triumph  and  prevail  ! 
Charm'd  as  they  read  the  verse  too  sadly  true, 
How  gallant  Albert,  and  his  weary  crew,  750 

Heaved  o'er  their  guns,  their  foundering  bark  to  save, 
And  toil'd — and  shriek'd — and  perish'd  on  the  wave  ! 

Yes,  at  the  dead  of  night,  by  Lonna's  steep, 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep  ; 
There  on  his  funeral  waters,  dark  and  wild, 
The  dying  father  bless'd  his  darling  child  ! 
Oh  !  Mercy,  shield  her  innocence,  he  cried, 
Spent  on  the  prayer  his  bursting  heart,  and  died  ! 

Or  they  will  learn  how  generous  worth  sublimes 
The  robber  Moor,  and  pleads  for  all  his  crimes  !  760 

How  poor  Amelia  kiss'd,  with  many  a  tear, 
His  hand,  blood-stain'd,  but  ever,  ever  dear  ! 
Hung  on  the  tortured  bosom  of  her  lord, 
And  wept  and  pray'd  perdition  from  his  sword  ! 
Nor  sought  in  vain  !  at  that  heart-piercing  cry 
The  strings  of  Nature  crack'd  with  agony  ! 
He,  with  delirious  laugh,  the  dagger  hurl'd, 
And  burst  the  ties  that  bound  him  to  the  world  ! 

Turn  from  his  dying  words,  that  smite  with  steel 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  39 

The  shuddering  thoughts,  or  wind  them  on  the  wheel —  770 

Turn  to  the  gentler  melodies  that  suit 

Thalia's  harp,  or  Pan's  Arcadian  lute  ; 

Or,  down  the  stream  of  Truth's  historic  page, 

From  clime  to  clime  descend,  from  age  to  age  ! 

Vet  there,  perhaps,  may  darker  scenes  obtrude 
Than  Fancy  fashions  in  her  wildest  mood  ; 
There  shall  he  pause  with  horrent  brow,  to  rate 
What  millions  died — that  Caesar  might  be  great ! 
Or  learn  the  fate  that  bleeding  thousands  bore, 
March'd  by  their  Charles  to  Dnieper's  swampy  shore  ;  780 
Faint  in  his  wounds,  and  shivering  in  the  blast, 
The  Swedish  soldier  sunk — and  groan'd  his  last ! 
File  after  file  the  stormy  showers  benumb, 
Freeze  every  standard-sheet,  and  hush  the  drum  ! 
Horseman  and  horse  confess'd  the  bitter  pang, 
And  arms  and  warriors  fell  with  hollow  clang  ! 
Yet,  ere  he  sunk  in  Nature's  last  repose, 
Ere  life's  warm  torrent  to  the  fountain  froze, 
The  dying  man  to  Sweden  turn'd  his  eye, 
Thought  of  his  home,  and  closed  it  with  a  sigh  !  790 

Imperial  Pride  look'd  sullen  on  his  plight, 
And  Charles  beheld — nor  shudder'd  at  the  sight ! 

Above,  below,  in  Ocean,  Earth,  and  Sky, 
Thy  fairy  worlds,  Imagination,  lie  ; 
And  HOPE  attends,  companion  of  the  way. 
Thy  dream  by  night,  thy  visions  of  the  day  ! 
In  yonder  pensile  orb,  and  every  sphere 
That  gems  the  starry  girdle  of  the  year  ; 
In  those  unmeasured  worlds,  she  bids  thee  tell, 
Pure  from  their  God,  created  millions  dwell,  •     Soo 

Whose  names  and  natures,  unreveal'd  below, 
We  yet  shall  learn,  and  wonder  as  we  know  ; 
For,  as  lona's  saint,  a  giant  form, 


40  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

Throned  on  her  towers,  conversing  with  the  storm, 

(When  o'er  each  Runic  altar,  weed-entwined, 

The  vesper  clock  tolls  mournful  to  the  wind), 

Counts  every  wave-worn  isle,  and  mountain  hoar, 

From  Kilda  to  the  green  lerne's  shore  ; 

So,  when  thy  pure  and  renovated  mind 

This  perishable  dust  hath  left  behind,  810 

Thy  seraph  eye  shall  count  the  starry  train, 

Like  distant  isles  embosom'd  in  the  main  ; 

Rapt  to  the  shrine  where  motion  first  began, 

And  light  and  life  in  mingling  torrent  ran  ; 

From  whence  each  bright  rotundity  was  hurl'd, 

The  throne  of  God, — the  centre  of  the  world  ! 

Oh  !  vainly  wise,  the  moral  Muse  hath  sung 
That  suasive  HOPE  hath  but  a  Siren  tongue  ! 
True  ;  she  may  sport  with  life's  untutor'd  day, 
Nor  heed  the  solace  of  its  last  decay,  820 

The  guileless  heart,  her  happy  mansion,  spurn, 
And  part,  like  Ajut — never  to  return  ! 

But  yet,  methinks,  when  Wisdom  shall  assuage 
The  grief  and  passions  of  our  greener  age, 
Though  dull  the  close  of  life,  and  far  away 
Each  flower  that  hail'd  the  dawning  of  the  day  ; 
Yet  o'er  her  lovely  hopes,  that  once  were  dear, 
The  time-taught  spirit,  pensive,  not  severe, 
With  milder  griefs  her  aged  eye  shall  fill, 
And  weep  their  falsehood,  though  she  loves  them  still !  830 

Thus,  with  forgiving  tears,  and  reconciled, 
The  king  of  Judah  mourn'd  his  rebel  child  ! 
Musing  on  days,  when  yet  the  guiltless  boy 
Smiled  on  his  sire,  and  fill'd  his  heart  with  joy  ! 
"  My  Absalom  !"  the  voice  of  Nature  cried, 
"  Oh  !  that  for  thee  thy  father  could  have  died  ! 
For  bloody  was  the  deed,  and  rashly  done, 
That  slew  my  Absalom  ! — my  son  ! — my  son  ! '' 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  41 

Unfading  HOPE  !  when  life's  last  embers  burn, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return  !  840 

Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour  ! 
Oh  !  then,  thy  kingdom  comes  !  Immortal  Power  ! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye  ! 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day — 
Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin, 
And  all  the  phcenix  spirit  burns  within  ! 

Oh  !  deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose, 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes  ! —  850 

Yet  half  I  hear  the  panting  spirit  sigh, 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die  ! 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravell'd  by  the  sun  ! 
Where  Time's  far-wandering  tide  has  never  run, 
From  your  unfathom'd  shades,  and  viewless  spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears  : 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet,  long  and  loud, 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud  ! 
While  Nature  hears,  with  terror-mingled  trust, 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust ;  860 

And,  like  the  trembling  Hebrew,  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  call'd  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss, 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss  ! 

Daughter  of  Faith,  awake,  arise,  illume 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb  ; 
Melt,  and  dispel,  ye  spectre-doubts,  that  roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  o'er  the  parting  soul ! 
Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  Dismay, 
Chased  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day  !  870 

The  strife  is  o'er— the  pangs  of  Nature  close, 
And  life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 
Hark  !  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze, 


42  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

The  noon  of  Heaven,  undazzled  by  the  blaze, 

On  heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky, 

Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody ; 

Wild  as  that  hallow'd  anthem  sent  to  hail 

Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale, 

When  Jordan  hush'd  his  waves,  and  midnight  still 

Watch'd  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion  hill !  880 

Soul  of  the  just !  companion  of  the  dead  ! 
Where  is  thy  home,  and  whither  art  thou  fled  ? 
Back  to  its  heavenly  source  thy  being  goes, 
Swift  as  the  comet  wheels  to  whence  he  rose  ; 
Doom'd  on  his  airy  path  awhile  to  burn, 
And  doom'd,  like  thee,  to  travel  and  return. — 
Hark  !  from  the  world's  exploding  centre  driven, 
With  sounds  that  shook  the  firmament  of  Heaven, 
Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far, 

On  bickering  wheels,  and  adamantine  car  ;  890 

From  planet  whirl'd  to  planet  more  remote, 
He  visits  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought ; 
But  wheeling  homeward,  when  his  course  is  run, 
Curbs  the  red  yoke,  and  mingles  with  the  sun  ! 
So  hath  the  traveller  of  earth  unfurl'd 
Her  trembling  wings,  emerging  from  the  world  ; 
And  o'er  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod, 
Sprung  to  her  source,  the  bosom  of  her  God  ! 

Oh  !  lives  there,  Heaven  !  beneath  thy  dread  expanse. 
One  hopeless,  dark  idolater  of  Chance,  .  900 

Content  to  feed,  with  pleasures  unrefined, 
The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind  ; 
Who,  mouldering  earthward,  'reft  of  every  trust, 
In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust, 
Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss, 
And  call  this  barren  world  sufficient  bliss  ? — 
There  live,  alas  !  of  heaven-directed-mien, 
Of  cultured  soul,  and  sapient  eye  serene, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  43 

Who  hail  thee,  Man  !  the  pilgrim  of  a  day, 

Spouse  of  the  worm,  and  brother  of  the  clay,  910 

Frail  as  the  leaf  in  Autumn's  yellow  bower, 

Dust  in  the  wind,  or  dew  upon  the  flower  ; 

A  friendless  slave,  a  child  without  a  sire, 

Whose  mortal  life  and  momentary  fire 

Light  to  the  grave  his  chance-created  form, 

As  ocean-wrecks  illuminate  the  storm  ; 

And,  when  the  gun's  tremendous  flash  is  o'er, 

To  night  and  silence  sink  for  evermore  ! 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim, 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  demi-gods  of  Fame  ?  920 

Is  this  your  triumph — this  your  proud  applause, 
Children  of  Truth,  and  champions  of  her  cause  ? 
For  this  hath  Science  search'd  on  weary  wing, 
By  shore  and  sea — each  mute  and  living  thing  ! 
Launch'd  with  Iberia's  pilot  from  the  steep, 
To  worlds  unknown,  and  isles  beyond  the  deep  ? 
Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot  driven, 
And  wheel'd  in  triumph  through  the  signs  of  Heaven  ! 
Oh  !  star-eyed  Science,  hast  thou  wander'd  there, 
To  waft  us  home  the  message  of  despair  ?  930 

Then  bind  the  palm,  thy  sage's  brow  to  suit, 
Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death-distilling  fruit  ? 
Ah  me  !  the  laurell'd  wreath  that  Murder  rears, 
Blood-nursed,  and  water'd  by  the  widow's  tears, 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so  dread, 
As  waves  the  nightshade  round  the  sceptic  head. 
What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain  ? 
I  smile  on  death,  if  Heaven-ward  HOPE  remain  ! 
But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's  strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life,  940 

If  Chance  awaked,  inexorable  power, 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an  hour  ; 
Doom'd  o'er  the  world's  precarious  scene  to  sweep 


44  THE  PLEASURES  OF   HOPE 

Swift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the  deep, 

To  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting  smile, 

And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little  while ; 

Then  melt,  ye  elements  that  form'd  in  vain 

This  troubled  pulse,  and  visionary  brain  ! 

Fade,  ye  wild  flowers,  memorials  of  my  doom, 

And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  me  to  the  tomb  !  ^50 

Truth,  ever  lovely, — since  the  world  began, 

The  foe  of  tyrants,  and  the  friend  of  man, — 

How  can  thy  words  from  balmy  slumber  start 

Reposing  Virtue,  pillow'd  on  the  heart ! 

Yet,  if  thy  voice  the  note  of  thunder  roll'd, 

And  that  were  true  which  Nature  never  told, 

Let  Wisdom  smile  not  on  her  conquer'd  field  ; 

No  rapture  dawns,  no  treasure  is  reveal'd  ! 

Oh  !  let  her  read,  nor  loudly,  nor  elate, 

The  doom  that  bars  us  from  a  better  fate  ;  960 

But,  sad  as  angels  for  the  good  man's  sin, 

Weep  to  record,  and  blush  to  give  it  in  ! 

And  well  may  Doubt,  the  mother  of  Dismay, 
Pause  at  her  martyr's  tomb,  and  read  the  lay. 
Down  by  the  wilds  of  yon  deserted  vale, 
It  darkly  hints  a  melancholy  tale  ! 
There,  as  the  homeless  madman  sits  alone, 
In  hollow  winds  he  hears  a  spirit  moan  ! 
And  there,  they  say,  a  wizard  orgie  crowds, 
When  the  Moon  lights  her  watch-tower  in  the  clouds.  970 
Poor  lost  Alonzo  !  Fate's  neglected  child  ! 
Mild  be  the  doom  of  Heaven — as  thou  wert  mild  ! 
For  oh  !  thy  heart  in  holy  mould  was  cast, 
And  all  thy  deeds  were  blameless,  but  the  last. 
Poor  lost  Alonzo  !  still  I  seem  to  hear 
The  clod  that  struck  thy  hollow-sounding  bier  ! 
When  Friendship  paid,  in  speechless  sorrow  drown'd, 
Thy  midnight  rites,  but  not  on  hallow'd  ground  ! 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  45 

Cease,  every  joy,  to  glimmer  on  my  mind, 
But  leave — oh  !  leave  the  light  of  HOPE  behind  !          980 
What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been, 
Like  angel-visits,  few  and  far  between, 
Her  musing  mood  shall  every  pang  appease, 
And  charm — when  pleasures  lose  the  power  to  please  ! 
Yes  ;  let  each  rapture,  dear  to  Nature,  flee  : 
Close  not  the  light  of  Fortune's  stormy  sea — • 
Mirth,  Music,  Friendship,  Love's  propitious  smile, 
Chase  every  care,  and  charm  a  little  while  ; 
Ecstatic  throbs  the  fluttering  heart  employ, 
And  all  her  strings  are  harmonised  to  joy  ! —  990 

But  why  so  short  is  Love's  delighted  hour  ? 
Why  fades  the  dew  on  Beauty's  sweetest  flower  ? 
WThy  can  no  hymned  charm  of  music  heal 
The  sleepless  woes  impassion'd  spirits  feel  ? 
Can  Fancy's  fairy  hands  no  veil  create, 
To  hide  the  sad  realities  of  fate? — 

No  !  not  the  quaint  remark,  the  sapient  rule, 
Nor  all  the  pride  of  Wisdom's  worldly  school, 
Have  power  to  soothe,  unaided  and  alone, 
The  heart  that  vibrates  to  a  feeling  tone  !  1000 

When  stepdame  Nature  every  bliss  recalls, 
Fleet  as  the  meteor  o'er  the  desert  falls ; 
When,  'reft  of  all,  yon  widow'd  sire  appears 
A  lonely  hermit  in  the  vale  of  years  ; 
Say,  can  the  world  one  joyous  thought  bestow 
To  Friendship,  weeping  at  the  couch  of  Woe  ? 
No  !  but  a  brighter  soothes  the  last  adieu, — 
Souls  of  impassion'd  mould,  she  speaks  to  you  ! 
Weep  not,  she  says,  at  Nature's  transient  pain, 
Congenial  spirits  part  to  meet  again  !  1010 

WTiat  plaintive  sobs  thy  filial  spirit  drew, 
What  sorrow  choked  thy  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Daughter  of  Conrad  !  when  he  heard  his  knell, 


46  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 

And  bade  his  country  and  his  child  farewell  ! 

Doom'd  the  long  isles  of  Sydney-cove  to  see, 

The  martyr  of  his  crimes,  but  true  to  thee  ? 

Thrice  the  sad  father  tore  thee  from  his  heart, 

And  thrice  return 'd,  to  bless  thee,  and  to  part  ; 

Thrice  from  his  trembling  lips  he  murmur'd  low 

The  plaint  that  own'd  unutterable  woe  ;  1020 

Till  Faith,  prevailing  o'er  his  sullen  doom, 

As  bursts  the  morn  on  night's  unfathom'd  gloom. 

Lured  his  dim  eye  to  deathless  hopes  sublime, 

Beyond  the  realms  of  Nature  and  of  Time  ! 

"  And  weep  not  thus,"  he  cried,  "young  Ellenore, 
My  bosom  bleeds,  but  soon  shall  bleed  no  more  ! 
Short  shall  this  half-extinguish'd  spirit  burn, 
And  soon  these  limbs  to  kindred  dust  return  ! 
But  not,  my  child,  with  life's  precarious  fire, 
The  immortal  ties  of  Nature  shall  expire  ;  1030 

These  shall  resist  the  triumph  of  decay, 
When  time  is  o'er,  and  worlds  have  pass'd  away  ! 
Cold  in  the  dust  this  perish'd  heart  may  lie, 
But  that  which  warm'd  it  once  shall  never  die  ! 
That  spark,  unburied  in  its  mortal  frame, 
With  living  light,  eternal,  and  the  same, 
Shall  beam  on  Joy's  interminable  years, 
Unveil'd  by  darkness — unassuaged  by  tears  ! 

"Yet,  on  the  barren  shore  and  stormy  deep, 
One  tedious  watch  is  Conrad  doom'd  to  weep  ;  1040 

But  when  I  gain  the  home  without  a  friend, 
And  press  the  uneasy  couch  where  none  attend, 
This  last  embrace,  still  cherish'd  in  my  heart, 
Shall  calm  the  struggling  spirit  ere  it  part  ! 
Thy  darling  form  shall  seem  to  hover  nigh, 
And  hush  the  groan  of  life's  last  agony  ! 

"  Farewell  !  when  strangers  lift  thy  father's  bier, 
And  place  my  nameless  stone  without  a  tear  ; 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE  47 

When  each  returning  pledge  hath  told  my  child 

That  Conrad's  tomb  is  on  the  desert  piled  ;  1050 

And  when  the  dream  of  troubled  Fancy  sees 

Its  lonely  rank  grass  waving  in  the  breeze  ; 

Who  then  will  soothe  thy  grief,  when  mine  is  o'er  ? 

Who  will  protect  thee,  helpless  Ellenore  ? 

Shall  secret  scenes  thy  filial  sorrows  hide, 

Scorn'd  by  the  world,  to  factious  guilt  allied  ? 

Ah,  no  !  methinks  the  generous  and  the  good 

Will  woo  thee  from  the  shades  of  solitude  ! 

O'er  friendless  grief  Compassion  shall  awake, 

And  smile  on  Innocence,  for  Mercy's  sake  ! "  1060 

Inspiring  thought  of  rapture  yet  to  be, 
The  tears  of  Love  were  hopeless,  but  for  thee  ! 
If  in  that  frame  no  deathless  spirit  dwell, 
If  that  faint  murmur  be  the  last  farewell, 
If  Fate  unite  the  faithful  but  to  part, 
Why  is  their  memory  sacred  to  the  heart  ? 
Why  does  the  brother  of  my  childhood  seem 
Restored  awhile  in  every  pleasing  dream  ? 
Why  do  I  joy  the  lonely  spot  to  view, 
By  artless  friendship  bless'd  when  life  was  new  ?          1070 

Eternal  HOPE  !  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Peal'd  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  Time, 
Thy  joyous  youth  began — but  not  to  fade. — 
When  all  the  sister  planets  have  decay'd  ; 
When  wrapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  Heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  world  below  ; 
Thou,  undismay'd,  shalt  o'er  the  ruins  smile, 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pile. 

1799- 


POEMS,   1800-1808 


49 


CAROLINE 
PART  I 

I'LL  bid  the  hyacinth  to  blow, 
I'll  teach  my  grotto  green  to  be  ; 

And  sing  my  true  love,  all  below 
The  holly  bower  and  myrtle  tree. 

There  all  his  wild-wood  sweets  to  bring, 
The  sweet  South  wind  shall  wander  by. 

And  with  the  music  of  his  wing 
Delight  my  rustling  canopy. 

Come  to  my  close  and  clustering  bower, 
Thou  spirit  of  a  milder  clime, 

Fresh  with  the  dews  of  fruit  and  flower, 
Of  mountain  heath,  and  moory  thyme. 

With  all  thy  rural  echoes  come, 
Sweet  comrade  of  the  rosy  day, 

Wafting  the  wild  bee's  gentle  hum, 
Or  cuckoo's  plaintive  roundelay. 

Where'er  thy  morning  breath  has  play'd, 
Whatever  isles  of  ocean  fann'd, 

Come  to  my  blossom -woven  shade, 
Thou  wandering  wind  of  fairy-land. 

Si 


52  POEMS,   1800-1808 

For  sure  from  some  enchanted  isle, 

Where  Heaven  and  Love  their  sabbath  hold, 

Where  pure  and  happy  spirits  smile, 
Of  beauty's  fairest,  brightest  mould  : 

From  some  green  Eden  of  the  deep, 
Where  Pleasure's  sigh  alone  is  heaved, 

Where  tears  of  rapture  lovers  weep, 
Enclear'cl,  undoubting,  undeceived  : 

From  some  sweet  paradise  afar, 
Thy  music  wanders,  distant,  lost — 

Where  Nature  lights  her  leading  star, 
And  love  is  never,  never  cross'd. 

Oh,  gentle  gale  of  Eden  bowers, 
If  back  thy  rosy  feet  should  roam, 

To  revel  with  the  cloudless  Hours 
In  Nature's  more  propitious  home, 

Name  to  thy  loved  Elysian  groves, 
That  o'er  enchanted  spirits  twine, 

A  fairer  form  than  cherub  loves, 
And  let  the  name  be  CAROLINE. 


CAROLINE 
PART  II 

TO    THE    EVENING    STAR 

GEM  of  the  crimson-colour'd  Even, 
Companion  of  retiring  day, 

Why  at  the  closing  gates  of  heaven, 
Beloved  star,  dost  thou  delay  ? 


POEMS,   1800-1808  53 

So  fair  thy  pensile  beauty  burns, 

When  soft  the  tear  of  twilight  flows  ; 

So  due  thy  plighted  love  returns 

To  chambers  brighter  than  the  rose  : 

To  Peace,  to  Pleasure,  and  to  Love, 

So  kind  a  star  thou  seem'st  to  be, 
Sure  some  enamour'd  orb  above 

Descends  and  burns  to  meet  with  thee. 

Thine  is  the  breathing,  blushing  hour, 

When  all  unheavenly  passions  fly, 
Chased  by  the  soul-subduing  power 

Of  Love's  delicious  witchery. 

O  !  sacred  to  the  fall  of  day, 

Queen  of  propitious  stars,  appear, 
And  early  rise,  and  long  delay, 

When  Caroline  herself  is  here  ! 

Shine  on  her  chosen  green  resort, 

Whose  trees  the  sunward  summit  crown. 

And  wanton  flowers,  that  well  may  court 
An  angel's  feet  to  tread  them  down. 

Shine  on  her  sweetly  scented  road, 
Thou  star  of  evening's  purple  dome, 

That  lead'st  the  nightingale  abroad, 
And  guid'st  the  pilgrim  to  his  home. 

Shine  where  my  charmer's  sweeter  breath 

Embalms  the  soft  exhaling  dew, 
Where  dying  winds  a  sigh  bequeath 

To  kiss  the  cheek  of  rosy  hue. 

Where,  winnow'd  by  the  gentle  air, 

Her  silken  tresses  darkly  flow, 
And  fall  upon  her  brow  so  fair, 

Like  shadows  on  the  mountain  snow. 


54  POEMS,  1800-1808 

Thus,  ever  thus,  at  day's  decline, 
In  converse  sweet,  to  wander  far, 

O  bring  with  thee  my  Caroline, 

And  thou  shall  be  my  Ruling  Star  ! 

1801. 


ODE  TO  WINTER 

WHEN  first  the  fiery-mantled  sun 
His  heavenly  race  began  to  run  ; 
Round  the  earth  and  ocean  blue, 
His  children  four  the  Seasons  flew. 
First,  in  green  apparel  dancing, 

The  young  Spring  smiled  with  angel  grace  ; 
Rosy  Summer  next  advancing 

Rush'd  into  her  sire's  embrace  : — 
Her  bright-hair'd  sire,  who  bade  her  keep 

For  ever  nearest  to  his  smiles, 
On  Calpe's  olive-shaded  steep, 

On  India's  citron-cover'd  isles  : 
More  remote  and  buxom-brown, 

The  Queen  of  vintage  bow'd  before  his  throne 
A  rich  pomegranate  gemm'd  her  crown, 

A  ripe  sheaf  bound  her  zone. 

But  howling  Winter  fled  afar, 
To  hills  that  prop  the  polar  star, 
And  loves  on  deer-borne  car  to  ride 
With  barren  Darkness  by  his  side, 
Round  the  shore  where  loud  Lofoden 

Whirls  to  death  the  roaring  whale, 
Round  the  hall  where  Runic  Odin 

Howls  his  war-song  to  the  gale  ; 


POEMS,   1800-1808  55 

Save  when  adown  the  ravaged  globe 

He  travels  on  his  native  storm, 
Deflowering  Nature's  grassy  robe, 

And  trampling  on  her  faded  form  :  — 
Till  light's  returning  lord  assume 

The  shaft  that  drives  him  to  his  polar  field, 
Of  power  to  pierce  his  raven  plume 

And  crystal-cover'd  shield. 

Oh,  sire  of  storms  !  whose  savage  ear 
The  Lapland  drum  delights  to  hear, 
When  Frenzy  with  her  blood-shot  eye 
Implores  thy  dreadful  deity, 
Archangel !  power  of  desolation  ! 

Fast  descending  as  thou  art, 
Say,  hath  mortal  invocation 

Spells  to  touch  thy  stony  heart  ? 
Then,  sullen  Winter,  hear  my  prayer, 

And  gently  rule  the  ruin'd  year  ; 
Nor  chill  the  wanderer's  bosom  bare, 

Nor  freeze  the  wretch's  falling  tear  ; — 
To  shuddering  Want's  unmantled  bed 

Thy  horror-breathing  agues  cease  to  lend, 
And  gently  on  the  orphan  head 

Of  innocence  descend. — 

But  chiefly  spare,  O  king  of  clouds  ! 
The  sailor  on  his  airy  shrouds  ; 
When  wrecks  and  beacons  strew  the  steep, 
And  spectres  walk  along  the  deep. 
Milder  yet  thy  snowy  breezes 

Pour  on  yonder  tented  shores, 
Where  the  Rhine's  broad  billow  freezes, 

Or  the  dark-brown  Danube  roars. 
Oh,  winds  of  Winter  !  list  ye  there 

To  many  a  deep  and  dying  groan  ; 


56  POEMS,  1800-1808 

Or  start,  ye  demons  of  the  midnight  air, 

At  shrieks  and  thunders  louder  than  your  own. 

Alas  !  ev'n  your  unhallow'd  breath 
May  spare  the  victim  fallen  low  ; 

But  man  will  ask  no  truce  to  death, — 
No  bounds  to  human  woe. 

1800. 


LINES 

ON   LEAVING  A   SCENE   IN   BAVARIA 

ADIEU  the  woods  and  waters'  side, 
Imperial  Danube's  rich  domain  ! 

Adieu  the  grotto,  wild  and  wide, 
The  rocks  abrupt,  and  grassy  plain  ! 
For  pallid  Autumn  once  again 

Hath  swell'd  each  torrent  of  the  hill ; 
Her  clouds  collect,  her  shadows  sail, 
And  watery  winds  that  sweep  the  vale 

Grow  loud  and  louder  still. 

But  not  the  storm,  dethroning  fast 
Yon  monarch  oak  of  massy  pile  ; 

Nor  river  roaring  to  the  blast 
Around  its  dark  and  desert  isle  ; 
Nor  church-bell  tolling  to  beguile 

The  cloud-born  thunder  passing  by, 
Can  sound  in  discord  to  my  soul : 
Roll  on,  ye  mighty  waters,  roll  ! 

And  rage,  thou  darken'd  sky  ! 

Thy  blossoms  now  no  longer  bright ; 
Thy  wither'd  woods  no  longer  green  ; 


POEMS,    1800-1808  57 

Yet,  Eldurn  shore,  with  dark  delight 

I  visit  thy  unlovely  scene  ! 

For  many  a  sunset  hour  serene 
My  steps  have  trod  thy  mellow  dew  ; 

When  his  green  light  the  glow-worm  gave, 

When  Cynthia  from  the  distant  wave 
Her  twilight  anchor  drew, 


And  plough'd,  as  with  a  swelling  sail, 

The  billowy  clouds  and  starry  sea ; 
Then  while  thy  hermit  nightingale 

Sang  on  his  fragrant  apple-tree, — 

Romantic,  solitary,  free, 
The  visitant  of  Eldurn's  shore, 

On  such  a  moonljght  mountain  stray'd, 

As  echo'd  to  the  music  made 
By  Druid  harps  of  yore. 

Around  thy  savage  hills  of  oak, 

Around  thy  waters  bright  and  blue, 

No  hunter's  horn  the  silence  broke, 
No  dying  shriek  thine  echo  knew  ; 
But  safe,  sweet  Eldurn  woods,  to  you 

The  wounded  wild  deer  ever  ran, 

Whose  myrtle  bound  their  grassy  cave, 
Whose  very  rocks  a  shelter  gave 

From  blood-pursuing  man. 

Oh  heart  effusions,  that  arose 

From  nightly  wanderings  cherish 'd  here  ; 
To  him  who  flies  from  many  woes, 

Even  homeless  deserts  can  be  dear  ! 

The  last  and  solitary  cheer 


58  POEMS,    1800    1808 

Of  those  that  own  no  earthly  home, 
Say — is  it  not,  ye  banish'd  race, 
In  such  a  loved  and  lonely  place 

Companionless  to  roam  ? 

Yes  !  I  have  loved  thy  wild  abode, 

Unknown,  unplough'd,  untrodden  shore 

Where  scarce  the  woodman  finds  a  road, 
And  scarce  the  fisher  plies  an  oar  : 
For  man's  neglect  I  love  thee  more  ; 

That  art  nor  avarice  intrude 

To  tame  thy  torrent's  thunder-shock, 
Or  prune  thy  vintage  of  the  rock 

Magnificently  rude. 

Unheeded  spreads  thy  blossom'd  bud 

Its  milky  bosom  to  the  bee  ; 
Unheeded  falls  along  the  flood 

Thy  desolate  and  aged  tree. 

Forsaken  scene,  how  like  to  thec 
The  fate  of  unbefriended  Worth  ! 

Like  thine  her  fruit  dishonour' d  falls  ; 

Like  thee  in  solitude  she  calls 
A  thousand  treasures  forth. 

Oh  !  silent  spirit  of  the  place, 

If,  lingering  with  the  ruin'd  year, 

Thy  hoary  form  and  awful  face 

I  yet  might  watch  and  worship  here ! 
Thy  storm  were  music  to  mine  ear, 

Thy  wildest  walk  a  shelter  given 
Sublimer  thoughts  on  earth  to  find, 
And  share,  with  no  unhallow'd  mind, 

The  majesty  of  heaven. 


POEMS,   1800-1808  59 

What  though  the  bosom  friends  of  Fate, — 

Prosperity's  unweaned  brood, — 
Thy  consolations  cannot  rate, 

0  self-dependent  Solitude  ! 
Yet  with  a  spirit  unsubdued, 

Though  darken'd  by  the  clouds  of  Care 

To  worship  thy  congenial  gloom, 

A  pilgrim  to  the  Prophet's  tomb 
The  Friendless  shall  repair. 

On  him  the  world  hath  never  smiled 

Or  look'd  but  with  accusing  eye  ; — 
All-silent  goddess  of  the  wild, 

To  thee  that  misanthrope  shall  fly  ! 

1  hear  his  deep  soliloquy, 

I  mark  his  proud  but  ravaged  form, 
As  stern  he  wraps  his  mantle  round, 
And  bids,  on  winter's  bleakest  ground, 

Defiance  to  the  storm. 

Peace  to  his  banish'd  heart,  at  last, 

In  thy  dominions  shall  descend, 
And,  strong  as  beechwood  in  the  blast, 

His  spirit  shall  refuse  to  bend  ; 

Enduring  life  without  a  friend, 
The  world  and  falsehood  left  behind, 

Thy  votary  shall  bear  elate, 

(Triumphant  o'er  opposing  Fate), 
His  dark  inspired  mind. 

But  dost  thou,  Folly,  mock  the  Muse 
A  wanderer's  mountain  walk  to  sing, 

Who  shuns  a  warring  world,  nor  woos 
The  vulture  cover  of  its  wing  ? 
Then  fly,  thou  cowering,  shivering  thing, 


60  POEMS,    1800-1808 

Back  to  the  fostering  world  beguiled, 
To  waste  in  self-consuming  strife 
The  loveless  brotherhood  of  life, 

Reviling  and  reviled  ! 

Away,  thou  lover  of  the  race 

That  hither  chased  yon  weeping  deer  ! 

If  Nature's  all  majestic  face 

More  pitiless  than  man's  appear  ; 
Or  if  the  wild  winds  seem  more  drear 

Than  man's  cold  charities  below, 
Behold  around  his  peopled  plains, 
Where'er  the  social  savage  reigns, 

Exuberance  of  woe  ! 

His  art  and  honours  would'st  thou  seek 
Emboss'd  on  grandeur's  giant  walls  ? 

Or  hear  his  moral  thunders  speak 
Where  senates  light  their  airy  halls, 
Where  man  his  brother  man  enthrals  ; 

Or  sends  his  whirlwind  warrants  forth 
To  rouse  the  slumbering  fiends  of  war, 
To  dye  the  blood-warm  waves  afar, 

And  desolate  the  earth  ? 


From  clime  to  clime  pursue  the  scene, 
And  mark  in  all  thy  spacious  way, 

Where'er  the  tyrant  man  has  been, 
There  Peace,  the  cherub,  cannot  stay  ; 
In  wilds  and  woodlands  far  away 

She  builds  her  solitary  bovver, 
Where  only  anchorites  have  trod, 
Or  friendless  men,  to  worship  God, 

Have  wander'd  for  an  hour. 


POEMS,   1800-1808  6r 

In  such  a  far  forsaken  vale, — 

And  such,  sweet  Eldurn  vale,  is  thine, — 
Afflicted  nature  shall  inhale 

Ileaven-borrow'd  thoughts  and  joys  divine  ; 

No  longer  wish,  no  more  repine 
For  man's  neglect  or  woman's  scorn  ; — 

Then  wed  thee  to  an  exile's  lot, 

For  if  the  world  hath  loved  thee  not, 
Its  absence  may  be  borne. 

1800. 


LINES  ON   REVISITING  CATHCART 

OH  !  scenes  of  my  childhood,  and  dear  to  my  heart, 

Ye  green  waving  woods  on  the  margin  of  Cart, 

I  low  blest  in  the  morning  of  life  I  have  stray'd 

By  the  stream  of  the  vale  and  the  grass-cover'd  glade  ! 

Then,  then  every  rapture  was  young  and  sincere, 
Ere  the  sunshine  of  bliss  was  bedimm'd  by  a  tear, 
And  a  sweeter  delight  every  scene  seem'd  to  lend, 
That  the  mansion  of  peace  was  the  home  of  a  FRIEND. 

Now  the  scenes  of  my  childhood  and  dear  to  my  heart 
All  pensive  I  visit,  and  sigh  to  depart ; 
Their  flowers  seem  to  languish,  their  beauty  to  cease, 
For  a  stranger  inhabits  the  mansion  of  peace. 

But  hush'd  be  the  sigh  that  untimely  complains, 
While  Friendship  and  all  its  enchantment  remains, 
While  it  blooms  like  the  flower  of  a  winterless  clime, 
Untainted  by  chance,  unabated  by  time. 

1800. 


62  POEMS,    1800-1808 


THE    BEECH    TREE'S    PETITION 

O  LEAVE  this  barren  spot  to  me  ! 

Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 

Though  bush  or  floweret  never  grow 

My  dark  unwarming  shade  below  ; 

Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 

Of  rosy  blush,  or  yellow  hue  ! 

Nor  fruits  of  autumn,  blossom-born, 

My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn  ; 

Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 

Th'  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive  ; 

Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me  : 

Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 

Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green  ; 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour  ; 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made  ; 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carved  many  a  long-forgotten  name. 
Oh  !  by  the  sighs  of  gentle  sound, 
First  breathed  upon  this  sacred  ground  • 
By  all  that  Love  has  whisper'd  here, 
Or  Beauty  heard  with  ravish'd  ear  ; 
As  Love's  own  altar  honour  me  : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 

1801. 


POEMS,   1800-1808  63 


LINES 

WRITTEN    OX    VISITING    A    SCENE    IN    ARGYLESHIRE 

AT  the  silence  of  twilight's  contemplative  hour 

I  have  mused,  in  a  sorrowful  mood, 
On  the  wind-shaken  weeds  that  embosom  the  bower 

Where  the  home  of  my  forefathers  stood. 
All  ruin'd  and  wild  is  their  roofless  abode, 

And  lonely  the  dark  raven's  sheltering  tree  ; 
And  travell'd  by  few  is  the  grass-cover'd  road, 
Where  the  hunter  of  deer  and  the  warrior  trode 

To  his  hills  that  encircle  the  sea. 

Yet  wandering  I  found  on  rny  ruinous  walk, 

By  the  dial-stone  aged  and  green, 
One  rose  of  the  wilderness  left  on  its  stalk, 

To  mark  where  a  garden  had  been. 
Like  a  brotherless  hermit,  the  last  of  its  race, 

All  wild  in  the  silence  of  nature,  it  drew, 
From  each  wandering  sun-beam,  a  lonely  embrace, 
For  the  night-weed  and  thorn  overshadow'd  the  place, 

Where  the  flower  of  my  forefathers  grew. 

Sweet  bud  of  the  wilderness  !  emblem  of  all 

That  remains  in  this  desolate  heart  ! 
The  fabric  of  bliss  to  its  centre  may  fall, 

But  patience  shall  never  depart ! 
Though  the  wilds  of  enchantment,  all  vernal  and  bright, 

In  the  days  of  delusion  by  fancy  combined 
With  the  vanishing  phantoms  of  love  and  delight, 
Abandon  my  soul,  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

And  leave  but  a  desert  behind. 


64  POEMS,   1800-1808 

Be  hush'd,  my  dark  spirit !  for  wisdom  condemns 

When  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore  ; 
Be  strong  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore  ! 
Through  the  perils  of  chance,  and  the  scowl  of  disdain, 

May  thy  front  be  unalter'd,  thy  courage  elate  ! 
Yea  !  even  the  name  I  have  worshipp'd  in  vain 
Shall  awake  not  the  sigh  of  remembrance  again  : 

To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate. 

1801. 


EXILE    OF    ERIN 

THERE  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill : 
For  his  country  he  sigh'd,  when  at  twilight  repairing 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill : 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 

Where  once,  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Sad  is  my  fate  !  said  the  heart-broken  stranger  ; 

The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee, 
But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 

A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 
Never  again,  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 
Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend  the  sweet  hours, 
Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild-woven  flowers. 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh  ! 


POEMS,   1800-1808  65 

Erin,  my  country  !  though  sad  and  forsaken, 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore ; 

But,  alas  !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more  ! 

Oh  cruel  fate  !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me: 

In  a  mansion  of  peace — where  no  perils  can  chase  me  ? 

Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me? 
They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore  ! 

Where  is  my  cabin-door,  fast  by  the  wild  wood  ? 

Sisters  and  sire  !  did  ye  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  look'd  on  my  childhood  ? 

And  where  is  the  bosom  friend,  dearer  than  all  ? 
Oh  !  my  sad  heart !  long  abandon'd  by  pleasure, 
Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure? 
Tears,  like  the  rain -drop,  may  fall  without  measure, 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

Yet,  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw  : 

Erin  !  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing  ! 
Land  of  my  forefathers  !  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Buried  and  cold  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields, — sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean  ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  devotion, — 
Erin  mavournin — Erin  go  bragh  ! 

1801. 


66  POEMS,   1800-1808 

YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND 

A   NAVAL  ODE 


YE  Mariners  of  England  ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas  ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe  ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave  ! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave  : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

in 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 
No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 


POEMS,   1800-1808  67 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 
She  quells  the  floods  below, — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 
When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

1801. 


HOHENLINDEN 

ON  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  th'  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  niglit, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 


68  POEMS,   1800-1808 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rush'd  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulph'rous  canopy 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few,  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

1802. 


POEMS,   1800-1808  69 

LOCHIEL'S  WARNING 
WIZARD — LOCHIEL 


LOCHIEI.,  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day 
When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array  ! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scatter'd  in  fight. 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown 
Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down  ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark  !  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
Tis  thine,  O  Glenullin  !  whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning  :  no  rider  is  there  ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin  !  to  death  and  captivity  led  ! 
Oh  weep  !  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead  : 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave, 
Culloden  !  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 


Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer  ! 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear, 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 


Ha  !  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn  ! 


70  POEMS,   1800-1808 

Say,  rush'd  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth, 
From  his  home,  in  the  dark  rolling  clouds  of  the  north  ? 
Lo  !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high  ! 
Ah  !  home  let  him  speed, — for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?  Why  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast  ? 
'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
O,  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  might, 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn  ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  !  all  lonely  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood. 

LOCHIEL 

False  Wizard,  avaunt !  I  have  marshall'd  my  clan, 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one  ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock  ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock  ! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws  ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanronald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array 


Lochiel,  Lochiel  !  beware  of  the  day  ; 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 


POEMS,   1800-1808  71 

'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 

And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 

With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 

Lo  !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath, 

Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 

Now  in  darkness  and  billows,  he  sweeps  from  my  sight  : 

Rise,  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 

'Tis  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hush'd  on  the  moors : 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 

But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?    Where  ? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banish'd,  forlorn, 

Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  ? 

Ah  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near  ; 

The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier  ; 

His  death-bell  is  tolling  :  oh  !  mercy,  dispel 

Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell  ! 

Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 

And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 

Accursed  be  the  faggots,  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 

Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  to  beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale 


Down,  soothless  insulter  !  I  trust  not  the  tale  : 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet, 

So  black  with  dishonour,  so  foul  with  retreat. 

Tho'  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strew'd  in  their  gore, 

Like  ocean-weeds  heap'd  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 

Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 

While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains, 

Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 

With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe  ! 


72  POEMS,   1800-1808 

And  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 

Look  proudly  to  Heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame. 

1802. 


GLENARA 

O  HEARD  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale, 
Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weeping  and  wail  ? 
'Tis  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his  dear  ; 
And  her  sire,  and  the  people,  are  call'd  to  her  bier. 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and  shroud  ; 
Her  kinsmen  they  follow'd,  but  mourn'd  not  aloud  : 
Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were  folded  around  ; 
They  march'd  all  in  silence, — they  look'd  on  the  ground. 

In  silence  they  reach'd  over  mountain  and  moor 
To  a  heath,  where  the  oak-tree  grew  lonely  and  hoar  : 
"  Now  here  let  us  place  the  grey  stone  of  her  cairn  : 
Why  speak  ye  no  word  !" — said  Glenara  the  stern. 

' '  And  tell  me,  I  charge  you  !  ye  clan  of  my  spouse, 
Why  fold  ye  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye  your  brows  ?  " 
So  spake  the  rude  chieftain  : — no  answer  is  made, 
But  each  mantle  unfolding  a  dagger  display'd. 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  shroud," 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all  wrathful  and  loud  ; 
"And  empty  that  shroud  and  that  coffin  did  seem  : 
Glenara  !  Glenara  !  now  read  me  my  dream  ! " 

O  !  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain,  I  ween, 
When  the  shroud  was  unclosed,  and  no  lady  was  seen  ; 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  louder  in  scorn, 
'Twas  the  youth  who  had  loved  the  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn  : 


POEMS,   1800-1808  73 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  grief, 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief  : 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did  seem  ; 
Glenara  !  Glenara  !  now  read  me  my  dream  !  " 

In  dust,  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  ground, 
And  the  desert  reveal'd  where  his  lady  was  found  ; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  borne — 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn  ! 

1802. 


LORD    ULLIN'S    DAUGHTER 

A  CHIEFTAIN,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  ! 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry. " — 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?  " 

"  O,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. — 

And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together, 

For  should  he  find  u,s  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride  ; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover  ? " — 


74  POEMS,   1800-1808 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"  I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  ready  : — 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright  ; 
But  for  your  winsome  lady  : 

And  by  my  word  !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry.  "— 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking  ; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. — 

"  O  haste  thee,  haste  !  "  the  lady  cries, 
"  Though  tempests  round  us  gather  ; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father. "- 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her, — 
When,  oh  !  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. — 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
Lord  Ullin  reach'd  that  fatal  shore  ; 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. — 

For  sore  dismay'd,  through  storm  and  shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover  : — 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretch'd  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 


POEMS,   1800-1808  75 

"  Come  back  !  come  back  ! "  he  cried  in  grief, 

"  Across  this  stormy  water  ; 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter  ! — oh  my  daughter  ! " — 

'Twas  vain  : — the  loud  waves  lash'd  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing  : — 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


BATTLE    OF    THE    BALTIC 


OF  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. — 

II 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 
Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine  ; 
While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 
On  the  lofty  British  line  : 
It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime  : 
As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death  ; 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 
For  a  time.  — 


76  POEMS,   1800-1808 


But  the  might  of  England  flush'cl 

To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

:<  Hearts  of  oak  !  "  our  captains  cried  ;  when  each 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. 


Again  !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail ; 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. — 


Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave  ; 

' '  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save  : — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King. "— 


POEMS,   1800-1808  77 


Then  Denmark  bless'd  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose  ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day ; 

While  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

VII 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise  ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 
And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 


Brave  hearts  !  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died  ; — 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou  : 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o'er  their  grave  ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  Glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave  ! 

1805-8, 


78  POEMS,   1800-1808 

STANZAS    ON    THE    THREATENED 
INVASION,    1803 

OUR  bosoms  we'll  bare  for  the  glorious  strife, 

And  our  oath  is  recorded  on  high, 
To  prevail  in  the  cause  that  is  dearer  than  life, 

Or  crush'd  in  its  ruins  to  die  ! 

Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land  ! 

'Tis  the  home  we  hold  sacred  is  laid  to  our  trust — 
God  bless  the  green  Isle  of  the  brave  ! 

Should  a  conqueror  tread  on  our  forefathers'  dust, 
It  would  rouse  the  old  dead  from  their  grave  ! 

Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 

And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land  ! 

In  a  Briton's  sweet  home  shall  a  spoiler  abide, 

Profaning  its  loves  and  its  charms  ? 
Shall  a  Frenchman  insult  the  loved  fair  at  our  side  ? 

To  arms  !  oh,  my  Country,  to  arms  ! 
Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land  ! 

Shall  a  tyrant  enslave  us,  my  countrymen  ? — No  ! 

His  head  to  the  sword  shall  be  given — 
A  death-bed  repentance  be  taught  the  proud  foe, 

And  his  blood  be  an  offering  to  Heaven  ! 
Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land  ! 

1803. 


POEMS,   1800-1808  79 


THE   SOLDIER'S  DREAM 

OUR  bugles  sang  truce — for  the  night-cloud  had  lower'd, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky  : 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpower'd 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  faggot  that  guarded  the  slain, — 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track  : 

'Twas  Autumn, — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcom'd  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young  ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 

And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart : — 

"  Stay,  stay  with  us, — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn  ! " 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  ;— 

But  sorrow  return'd  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 

1804. 


80  POEMS,   1800-1808 


STANZAS  TO  PAINTING 

0  THOU  by  whose  expressive  art 
Her  perfect  image  Nature  sees 

In  union  with  the  Graces  start, 
And  sweeter  by  reflection  please  ! 

In  whose  creative  hand  the  hues 
Fresh  from  yon  orient  rainbow  shine  ; 

1  bless  thee,  Promethean  Muse  ! 

And  call  thee  brightest  of  the  Nine  ! 

Possessing  more  than  vocal  power, 
Persuasive  more  than  poet's  tongue  ; 

Whose  lineage,  in  a  raptured  hour, 

From  Love,  the  Sire  of  Nature,  sprung 

Does  Hope  her  high  possession  meet  ? 

Is  joy  triumphant,  sorrow  flown  ? 
Sweet  is  the  trance,  the  tremor  sweet, 

When  all  we  love  is  all  our  own. 

But  oh  !  thou  pulse  of  pleasure  dear, 
Slow  throbbing,  cold,  I  feel  thee  part ; 

Lone  absence  plants  a  pang  severe, 
Or  death  inflicts  a  keener  dart. 

Then  for  a  beam  of  joy  to  light 
In  memory's  sad  and  wakeful  eye, 

Or  banish  from  the  noon  of  night 
Her  dreams  of  deeper  agony, 

Shall  Song  its  witching  cadence  roll  ? 

Yea,  even  the  tenderest  air  repeat, 
That  breathed  when  soul  was  knit  to  soul, 

And  heart  to  heart  responsive  beat  ? 


POEMS,   1800-1808  81 

What  visions  rise  !    to  charm,  to  melt ! 

The  lost,  the  loved,  the  dead,  are  near  ! 
Oh,  hush  that  strain  too  deeply  felt  ! 

And  cease  that  solace  too  severe  ! 

But  thou,  serenely  silent  art ! 

By  heaven  and  love  wast  taught  to  lend 
A  milder  solace  to  the  heart, 

The  sacred  image  of  a  friend. 

All  is  not  lost  !  if,  yet  possest, 

To  me  that  sweet  memorial  shine  : — 

If  close  and  closer  to  my  breast 
I  hold  that  idol  all  divine. 

Or,  gazing  through  luxurious  tears, 

Melt  o'er  the  loved  departed  form, 
Till  death's  cold  bosom  half  appears 

With  life,  and  speech,  and  spirit  warm. 

She  looks  !  she  lives  !  this  tranced  hour, 

Her  bright  eye  seems  a  purer  gem 
Than  sparkles  on  the  throne  of  power, 

Or  glory's  wealthy  diadem. 

Yes,  Genius,  yes  !  thy  mimic  aid 

A  treasure  to  my  soul  has  given, 
Where  beauty's  canonised  shade 

Smiles  in  the  sainted  hues  of  heaven. 

No  spectre  forms  of  pleasure  fled, 

Thy  softening,  sweetening,  tints  restore  ; 

For  thou  canst  give  us  back  the  dead, 
E'en  in  the  loveliest  looks  they  wore. 

G 


82  POEMS,   1800-1808 

Then  blest  be  Nature's  guardian  Muse, 
Whose  hand  her  perish'd  grace  redeems 

Whose  tablet  of  a  thousand  hues 
The  mirror  of  creation  seems. 

From  Love  began  thy  high  descent ; 

And  lovers,  charm'd  by  gifts  of  thine, 
Shall  bless  thee  mutely  eloquent ; 
And  call  thee  brightest  of  the  Nine  ! 

1802 


.       ADVERTISEMENT 

MOST  of  the  popular  histories  of  England,  as  well  as  of  the  American 
war,  give  an  authentic  account  of  the  desolation  of  Wyoming,  in 
Pennsylvania,  which  took  place  in  1778,  by  an  incursion  of  the 
Indians.  The  Scenery  and  Incidents  of  the  following  Poem  are 
connected  with  that  event.  The  testimonies  of  historians  and 
travellers  concur  in  describing  the  infant  colony  as  one  of  the 
happiest  spots  of  human  existence,  for  the  hospitable  and  innocent 
manners  of  the  inhabitants,  the  beauty  of  the  country,  and  the 
luxuriant  fertility  of  the  soil  and  climate.  In  an  evil  hour,  the 
junction  of  European  with  Indian  arms  converted  this  terrestrial 
paradise  into  a  frightful  waste.  Mr.  ISAAC  WELD  informs  us,  that 
the  ruins  of  many  of  the  villages,  perforated  with  balls,  and  bearing 
marks  of  conflagration,  were  still  preserved  by  the  recent  inhabitants, 
when  he  travelled  through  America  in  1796. 


PART  I 

i 

ON  Susquehanna's  side,  fair  Wyoming  ! 
Although  the  wild-flower  on  thy  ruin'd  wall, 
And  roofless  homes,  a  sad  remembrance  bring 
Of  what  thy  gentle  people  did  befall ; 
Yet  thou  wert  once  the  loveliest  land  of  all 
That  see  the  Atlantic  wave  their  morn  restore. 
Sweet  land  !  may  I  thy  lost  delights  recall, 
And  paint  thy  Gertrude  in  her  bowers  of  yore, 
Whose  beauty  was  the  love  of  Pennsylvania's  shore  ! 

II 

Delightful  Wyoming  '.  beneath  thy  skies, 
The  happy  shepherd  swains  had  nought  to  do 
But  feed  their  flocks  on  green  declivities, 
Or  skim  perchance  thy  lake  with  light  canoe, 
From  morn  till  evening's  sweeter  pastime  grew, 
With  timbrel,  when  beneath  the  forests  brown 
Thy  lovely  maidens  would  the  dance  renew  ; 
And  aye  those  sunny  mountains  half-way  down 
Would  echo  flagelet  from  some  romantic  town. 


Then,  where  of  Indian  hills  the  daylight  takes 
His  leave,  how  might  you  the  flamingo  see 

85 


86  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

Disporting  like  a  meteor  on  the  lakes — 
And  playful  squirrel  on  his  nut-grown  tree  : 
And  every  sound  of  life  was  full  of  glee, 
From  merry  mock-bird's  song,  or  hum  of  men  ; 
While  hearkening,  fearing  nought  their  revelry, 
The  wild  deer  arch'd  his  neck  from  glades,  and  then, 
Unhunted,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 

IV 

And  scarce  had  Wyoming  of  war  or  crime 
Heard,  but  in  transatlantic  story  rung, 
For  here  the  exile  met  from  every  clime, 
And  spoke  in  friendship  every  distant  tongue  : 
Men  from  the  blood  of  warring  Europe  sprung 
Were  but  divided  by  the  running  brook  ; 
And  happy  where  no  Rhenish  trumpet  sung, 
On  plains  no  sieging  mine's  volcano  shook, 

The  blue-eyed  German  changed  his  sword  to  pruning- 
hook. 

v 

Nor  far  some  Andalusian  saraband 
Would  sound  to  many  a  native  roundelay — 
But  who  is  he  that  yet  a  dearer  land 
Remembers,  over  hills  and  far  away  ? 
Green  Albin  !  what  though  he  no  more  survey 
Thy  ships  at  anchor  on  the  quiet  shore, 
Thy  pellochs  rolling  from  the  mountain  bay, 
Thy  lone  sepulchral  cairn  upon  the  moor, 

And  distant  isles  that  hear  the  loud  Corbrechtan  roar  ! 

VI 

Alas  !  poor  Caledonia's  mountaineer, 
That  want's  stern  edict  e'er,  and  feudal  grief, 
Had  forced  him  from  a  home  he  loved  so  dear  ! 
Yet  found  he  here  a  home,  and  glad  relief, 


And  plied  the  beverage  from  his  own  fair  sheaf, 
That  fired  his  Highland  blood  with  mickle  glee  : 
And  England  sent  her  men,  of  men  the  chief, 
Who  taught  those  sires  of  Empire  yet  to  be, 
To  plant  the  tree  of  life, — to  plant  fair  Freedom's  tree  ! 


Here  was  not  mingled  in  the  city's  pomp 
Of  life's  extremes  the  grandeur  and  the  gloom  ; 
Judgment  awoke  not  here  her  dismal  tromp, 
Nor  seal'd  in  blood  a  fellow  creature's  doom, 
Nor  mourn'd  the  captive  in  a  living  tomb. 
One  venerable  man,  beloved  of  all, 
Sufficed,  where  innocence  was  yet  in  bloom, 
To  sway  the  strife,  that  seldom  might  befall : 
And  Albert  was  their  judge  in  patriarchal  hall. 


How  reverend  was  the  look,  serenely  aged, 
He  bore,  this  gentle  Pennsylvanian  sire, 
Where  all  but  kindly  fervours  were  assuaged, 
Undimm'd  by  weakness'  shade,  or  turbid  ire  ! 
And  though,  amidst  the  calm  of  thought  entire, 
Some  high  and  haughty  features  might  betray 
A  soul  impetuous  once,  'twas  earthly  fire 
That  fled  composure's  intellectual  ray, 
As  Etna's  fires  grow  dim  before  the  rising  day. 

IX 

I  boast  no  song  in  magic  wonders  rife  ; 

But  yet,  O  Nature  !  is  there  nought  to  prize, 

Familiar  in  thy  bosom  scenes  of  life  ? 

And  dwells  in  day-light  truth's  salubrious  skies 


88  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

No  form  with  which  the  soul  may  sympathise  ? — 
Young,  innocent,  on  whose  sweet  forehead  mild 
The  parted  ringlet  shone  in  simplest  guise, 
An  inmate  in  the  home  of  Albert  smiled, 
Or  bless'd  his  noon-day  walk — she  was  his  only  child. 


The  rose  of  England  bloom'd  on  Gertrude's  cheek—- 
What though  these  shades  had  seen  her  birth,  her  sire 
A  Briton's  independence  taught  to  seek 
Far  western  worlds  ;  and  there  his  household  fire 
The  light  of  social  love  did  long  inspire, 
And  many  a  halcyon  day  he  lived  to  see 
Unbroken  but  by  one  misfortune  dire, 
When  fate  had  reft  his  mutual  heart — but  she 
Was  gone — and   Gertrude   climb'd   a   widow'd   father's 
knee. 

XI 

A  loved  bequest :  and  I  may  half  impart — 
To  them  that  feel  the  strong  paternal  tie — 
1  low  like  a  new  existence  to  his  heart 
That  living  flower  uprose  beneath  his  eye, 
Dear  as  she  was,  from  cherub  infancy, 
From  hours  when  she  would  round  his  garden  play, 
To  time  when,  as  the  ripening  years  went  by, 
Her  lovely  mind  could  culture  well  repay, 
And  more  engaging  grew  from  pleasing  day  to  day. 


I  may  not  paint  those  thousand  infant  charms  ; 

(Unconscious  fascination,  undesign'd  !) 

The  orison  repeated  in  his  arms, 

For  God  to  bless  her  sire  and  all  mankind  ; 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  89 

The  book,  the  bosom  on  his  knee  reclined, 
Or  how  sweet  fairy-lore  he  heard  her  con, 
(The  playmate  ere  the  teacher  of  her  mind) : 
All  uncompanion'd  else  her  heart  had  gone 
Till  now  in   Gertrude's  eyes  their   ninth  blue  summer 
shone. 


And  summer  was  the  tide,  and  sweet  the  hour, 
When  sire  and  daughter  saw,  with  fleet  descent, 
An  Indian  from  his  bark  approach  their  bower, 
Of  buskin'd  limb,  and  swarthy  lineament ; 
The  red  wild  feathers  on  his  brow  were  blent, 
And  bracelets  bound  the  arm  that  helped  to  light 
A  boy,  who  seem'd,  as  he  beside  him  went, 
Of  Christian  vesture,  and  complexion  bright, 
Led  by  his  dusky  guide,  like  morning  brought  by  night. 


Yet  pensive  seem'd  the  boy  for  one  so  young — 
The  dimple  from  his  polish'd  cheek  had  fled  ; 
When,  leaning  on  his  forest-bow  unstrung, 
Th'  Oneyda  warrior  to  the  planter  said, 
And  laidihis  hand  upon  the  stripling's  head, 
"  Peace  be  to  thee  !  my  words  this  belt  approve  ; 
The  paths  of  peace  my  steps  have  hither  led  : 
This  little  nursling,  take  him  to  thy  love, 
And  shield  the  bird  unfledged,  since  gone  the  parent 
dove. 


"  Christian  !  I  am  the  foeman  of  thy  foe  ; 
Our  wampum  league  thy  brethren  did  embrace  : 
Upon  the  Michigan,  three  moons  ago, 
We  launch'd  our  pirogues  for  the  bison  chase, 


90  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

And  with  the  Hurons  planted  for  a  space, 
With  true  and  faithful  hands,  the  olive-stalk  ; 
But  snakes  are  in  the  bosoms  of  their  race, 
And  though  they  held  with  us  a  friendly  talk, 
The  hollow  peace-tree  fell  beneath  their  tomahawk  1 

XVI 

"  It  was  encamping  on  the  lake's  far  port, 
A  cry  of  Areouski  broke  our  sleep, 
Where  storm'd  an  ambush'd  foe  thy  nation's  fort, 
And  rapid,  rapid  whoops  came  o'er  the  deep  ; 
But  long  thy  country's  war-sign  on  the  steep 
Appeared  through  ghastly  intervals  of  light, 
And  deathfully  their  thunders  seem'd  to  sweep, 
Till  utter  darkness  swallow'd  up  the  sight, 

As  if  a  shower  of  blood  had  quench'd  the  fiery  fight  ! 

XVII 

' '  It  slept — it  rose  again — on  high  their  tower 
Sprung  upwards  like  a  torch  to  light  the  skies, 
Then  clown  again  it  rain'd  an  ember  shower, 
And  louder  lamentations  heard  we  rise  : 
As  when  the  evil  Manitou  that  dries 
Th'  Ohio  woods,  consumes  them  in  his  ire, 
In  vain  the  desolated  panther  flies, 
And  howls  amidst  his  wilderness  of  fire  : 

Alas  !  too  late,  we  reach'd  and  smote  those  Hurons  dire ! 


"  But  as  the  fox  beneath  the  nobler  hound, 
So  died  their  warriors  by  our  battle-brand  ; 
And  from  the  tree  we,  with  her  child,  unbound 
A  lonely  mother  of  the  Christian  land  : — 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  91 

Her  lord — the  captain  of  the  British  band — 
Amidst  the  slaughter  of  his  soldiers  lay. 
Scarce  knew  the  widow  our  delivering  hand  ; 
Upon  her  child  she  sobb'd,  and  swoon'd  away, 
Or  shriek'd  unto  the  God  to  whom  the  Christians  pray. — 


"  Our  virgins  fed  her  with  their  kindly  bowls 

Of  fever-balm  and  sweet  sagamite ; 

But  she  was  journeying  to  the  land  of  souls, 

And  lifted  up  her  dying  head  to  pray 

That  we  should  bid  an  ancient  friend  convey 

Her  orphan  to  his  home  of  England's  shore  ; 

And  take,  she  said,  this  token  far  away 

To  one  that  will  remember  us  of  yore, 
When   he    beholds    the   ring    that    Waldegrave's  Julia 
wore. 


"And  I,  the  eagle  of  my  tribe,  have  rush'd 
With  this  lorn  dove." — A  sage's  self-command 
Had  quell'd  the  tears  from  Albert's  heart  that  gush'd  ; 
But  yet  his  cheek — his  agitated  hand — 
That  shower'd  upon  the  stranger  of  the  land 
No  common  boon,  in  grief  but  ill  beguiled 
A  soul  that  was  not  wont  to  be  unmann'd  ; 
"  And  stay,"  he  cried,  "  dear  pilgrim  of  the  wild, 

Preserver  of  my  old,  my  boon  companion's  child  ! — 


"  Child  of  a  race  whose  name  my  bosom  warms, 
On  earth's  remotest  bounds  how  welcome  here  ! 
Whose  mother  oft,  a  child,  has  fill'd  these  arms, 
Young  as  thyself,  and  innocently  dear  ; 


92  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

Whose  grandsire  was  my  early  life's  compeer. 
Ah,  happiest  home  of  England's  happy  clime  ! 
How  beautiful  ev'n  now  thy  scenes  appear, 
As  in  the  noon  and  sunshine  of  my  prime  ! 
How  gone  like  yesterday  these  thrice  ten  years  of  time  ! 

XXII 

"  And  Julia  !  when  thou  wert  like  Gertrude  now, 
Can  I  forget  thee,  favourite  child  of  yore  ? 
Or  thought  I,  in  thy  father's  house,  when  thou 
Wert  lightest -hearted  on  his  festive  floor, 
And  first  of  all  his  hospitable  door 
To  meet  and  kiss  me  at  my  journey's  end  ? 
But  where  was  I  when  Waldegrave  was  no  more  ? 
And  thou  didst  pale  thy  gentle  head  extend 

In  woes,  that  ev'n  the  tribe  of  deserts  was  thy  friend  !  " 

XXIII 

He  said — and  strain'd  unto  his  heart  the  boy  : — 
Far  differently  the  mute  Oneyda  took 
His  calumet  of  peace,  and  cup  of  joy  ; 
As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look  : 
A  soul  that  pity  touch'd,  but  never  shook  ; 
Train'd  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods — a  man  without  a  tear. — 

XXIV 

Yet  deem  not  goodness  on  the  savage  stock 
Of  Outalissi's  heart  disdain'd  to  grow  : 
As  lives  the  oak  unwither'd  on  the  rock 
By  storms  above,  and  barrenness  below  ; 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  93 

He  scorn'd  his  own,  who  felt  another's  woe : 
And  ere  the  wolf-skin  on  his  back  he  flung, 
Or  laced  his  mocasins,  in  act  to  go, 
A  song  of  parting  to  the  boy  he  sung, 
Who  slept  on  Albert's  couch,  nor  heard  his  friendly 
tongue. 


"  Sleep,  wearied  one  !  and  in  the  dreaming  land 
Shouldst  thou  to-morrow  with  thy  mother  meet, 
Oh  !  tell  her  spirit  that  the  white  man's  hand 
Hath  pluck'd  the  thorns  of  sorrow  from  thy  feet ; 
While  I  in  lonely  wilderness  shall  greet 
Thy  little  footprints — or  by  traces  know 
The  fountain,  where  at  noon  I  thought  it  sweet 
To  feed  thee  with  the  quarry  of  my  bow, 

And  pour'd  the  lotus-horn,  or  slew  the  mountain  roe. 


"  Adieu  !  sweet  scion  of  the  rising  sun  ! 
But  should  affliction's  storms  thy  blossom  mock, 
Then  come  again — my  own  adopted  one  ! 
And  I  will  graft  thee  on  a  noble  stock  : 
The  crocodile,  the  condor  of  the  rock, 
Shall  be  the  pastime  of  thy  sylvan  wars  ; 
And  I  will  teach  thee,  in  the  battle's  shock, 
To  pay  with  Huron  blood  thy  father's  scars, 
And  gratulate  his  soul  rejoicing  in  the  stars  !  " 


So  finish'd  he  the  rhyme  (howe'er  uncouth) 
That  true  to  nature's  fervid  feelings  ran  ; 
(And  song  is  but  the  eloquence  of  truth) : 
Then  forth  uprose  that  lone  wayfaring  man  ; 


94  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

But  dauntless  he,  nor  chart,  nor  journey's  plan 
In  woods  required,  whose  trained  eye  was  keen 
As  eagle  of  the  wilderness,  to  scan 
His  path  by  mountain,  swamp,  or  deep  ravine, 
Or  ken  far  friendly  huts  on  good  savannas  green. 


Old  Albert  saw  him  from  the  valley's  side — 
His  pirogue  launch'd — his  pilgrimage  begun — 
Far,  like  the  red-bird's  wing,  he  seem'd  to  glide  ; 
Then  dived,  and  vanish'd  in  the  woodlands  dun. 
Oft,  to  that  spot  by  tender  memory  won, 
Would  Albert  climb  the  promontory's  height, 
If  but  a  dim  sail  glimmer'd  in  the  sun  ; 
But  never  more,  to  bless  his  longing  sight, 
Was  Outalissi  hail'd,  with  bark  and  plumage  bright. 


PART  II 


A  VALLEY  from  the  river  shore  withdrawn 
Was  Albert's  home,  two  quiet  woods  between, 
Whose  lofty  verdure  overlook'd  his  lawn  ; 
And  waters  to  their  resting-place  serene 
Came  freshening,  and  reflecting  all  the  scene : 
(A  mirror  in  the  depth  of  flowery  shelves) ; 
So  sweet  a  spot  of  earth,  you  might  (I  ween) 
Have  guess'd  some  congregation  of  the  elves, 
To  sport   by  summer  moons,  had    shaped    it  for  them- 
selves. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  95 


Yet  wanted  not  the  eye  far  scope  to  muse, 
Nor  vistas  open'd  by  the  wandering  stream  ; 
Both  where  at  evening  Alleghany  views, 
Through  ridges  burning  in  her  western  beam, 
Lake  after  lake  interminably  gleam  : 
And  past  those  settlers'  haunts  the  eye  might  roam, 
Where  earth's  unliving  silence  all  would  seem  ; 
Save  where  on  rocks  the  beaver  built  his  dome, 
Or  buffalo  remote  low'd  far  from  human  home. 


But  silent  not  that  adverse  eastern  path, 
Which  saw  Aurora's  hills  th'  horizon  crown  : 
There  was  the  river  heard,  in  bed  of  wrath, 
(A  precipice  of  foam  from  mountains  brown), 
Like  tumults  heard  from  some  far  distant  town 
But  softening  in  approach  he  left  his  gloom, 
And  murmur'd  pleasantly,  and  laid  him  down 
To  kiss  those  easy  curving  banks  of  bloom, 
That  lent  the  windward  air  an  exquisite  perfume.  - 


It  seem'd  as  if  those  scenes  sweet  influence  had 
On  Gertrude's  soul,  and  kindness  like  their  own 
Inspired  those  eyes  affectionate  and  glad, 
That  seem'd  to  love  whate'er  they  look'd  upon  ; 
Whether  with  Hebe's  mirth  her  features  shone, 
Or  if  a  shade  more  pleasing  them  o'ercast, 
(As  if  for  heavenly  musing  meant  alone) ; 
Yet  so  becomingly  th'  expression  past, 
That  each  succeeding  look  was  lovelier  than  the  last. 


96  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 


Nor,  guess  I,  was  that  Pennsylvania!!  home, 
With  all  its  picturesque  and  balmy  grace, 
And  fields  that  were  a  luxury  to 'roam, 
Lost  on  the  soul  that  look'd  from  such  a  face  ! 
Enthusiast  of  the  woods  !  when  years  apace 
Had  bound  thy  lovely  waist  with  woman's  zone, 
The  sunrise  path,  at  morn,  I  see  thee  trace 
To  hills  with  high  magnolia  overgrown, 
And  joy  to  breathe  the  groves,  romantic  and  alone. 

VI 

The  sunrise  drew  her  thoughts  to  Europe  forth, 
That  thus  apostrophised  its  viewless  scene  : 
' '  Land  of  my  father's  love,  my  mother's  birth  ! 
The  home  of  kindred  I  have  never  seen  ! 
We  know  not  other — oceans  are  between  : 
Yet  say,  far  friendly  hearts  from  whence  we  came, 
Of  us  does  oft  remembrance  intervene  ? 
My  mother  sure — my  sire  a  thought  may  claim  ; — 
But  Gertrude  is  to  you  an  unregarded  name. 

VII 

"  And  yet,  loved  England  !  when  thy  name  I  trace 
In  many  a  pilgrim's  tale  and  poet's  song, 
How  can  I  choose  but  wish  for  one  embrace 
Of  them,  the  dear  unknown,  to  whom  belong 
My  mother's  looks,  — perhaps  her  likeness  strong  ? 
O  parent !  with  what  reverential  awe, 
From  features  of  thy  own  related  throng, 
An  image  of  thy  face  my  soul  could  draw  ! 

And  see  thee  once  again  whom  I  too  shortly  saw  !  " 


97 


Yet  deem  not  Gertrude  sigh'd  for  foreign  joy  ; 
To  soothe  a  father's  couch  her  only  care, 
And  keep  his  reverend  head  from  all  annoy  : 
For  this,  methinks,  her  homeward  steps  repair, 
Soon  as  the  morning  wreath  had  bound  her  hair  ; 
While  yet  the  wild  deer  trod  in  spangling  dew, 
While  boatmen  caroll'd  to  the  fresh-blown  air, 
And  woods  a  horizontal  shadow  threw, 
And  early  fox  appear'd  in  momentary  view. 


Apart  there  was  a  deep  untrodden  grot, 
Where  oft  the  reading  hours  sweet  Gertrude  wore  ; 
Tradition  had  not  named  its  lonely  spot ; 
But  here  (methinks)  might  India's  sons  explore 
Their  fathers'  dust,  or  lift  perchance  of  yore 
Their  voice  to  the  great  Spirit : — rocks  sublime 
To  human  art  a  sportive  semblance  bore, 
And  yellow  lichens  colour'd  all  the  clime, 
Like   moonlight    battlements,    and   towers   decay'd    by 
time. 


But  high  in  amphitheatre  above, 
Gay-tinted  woods  their  massy  foliage  threw  : 
Breathed  but  an  air  of  heaven,  and  all  the  grove 
As  if  instinct  with  living  spirit  grew, 
Rolling  its  verdant  gulfs  of  every  hue  ; 
And  now  suspended  was  the  pleasing  din, 
Now  from  a  murmur  faint  it  swell'd  anew, 
Like  the  first  note  of  organ  heard  within 
Cathedral  aisles, — ere  yet  its  symphony  begin. 

H 


98  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 


It  was  in  this  lone  valley  she  would  charm 
The  lingering  noon,  where  flowers  a  couch  had  strown  ; 
Her  cheek  reclining,  and  her  snowy  arm 
On  hillock  by  the  pine-tree  half  o'ergrown  : 
And  aye  that  volume  on  her  lap  is  thrown, 
Which  every  heart  of  human  mould  endears  ; 
With  Shakespeare's  self  she  speaks  and  smiles  alone, 
And  no  intruding  visitation  fears, 

To  shame  the  unconscious  laugh,  or  stop  her  sweetest 
tears. 


And  nought  within  the  grove  was  seen  or  heard 
But  stock-doves  plaining  through  its  gloom  profound, 
Or  winglet  of  the  fairy  humming-bird, 
Like  atoms  of  the  rainbow  fluttering  round  ; 
When,  lo  !  there  enter'd  to  its  inmost  ground 
A  youth,  the  stranger  of  a  distant  land  ; 
He  was,  to  weet;  for  eastern  mountains  bound  ; 
But  late  th'  equator  suns  his  cheek  had  tann'd, 
And  California's  gales  his  roving  bosom  fann'd. 


A  steed,  whose  rein  hung  loosely  o'er  his  arm, 
He  led  dismounted  ;  ere  his  leisure  pace, 
Amid  the  brown  leaves,  could  her  ear  alarm, 
Close  he  had  come,  and  worshipp'd  for  a  space 
Those  downcast  features  : — she  her  lovely  face 
Uplift  on  one,  whose  lineaments  and  frame 
Wore  youth  and  manhood's  intermingled  grace  : 
Iberian  seem'd  his  boot — his  robe  the  same, 
And  well  the  Spanish  plume  his  lofty  looks  became. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  99 


For  Albert's  home  he  sought — her  finger  fair 
Has  pointed  where  the  father's  mansion  stood. 
Returning  from  the  copse  he  soon  was  there  ; 
And  soon  has  Gertrude  hied  from  dark  green  wood  ; 
Nor  joyless  by  the  converse  understood, 
Between  the  man  of  age  and  pilgrim  young, 
That  gay  congeniality  of  mood 
And  early  liking  from  acquaintance  sprung  ; 
Full  fluently  conversed  their  guest  in  England's  tongue. 


And  well  could  he  his  pilgrimage  of  taste 
Unfold, — and  much  they  loved  his  fervid  strain, 
While  he  each  fair  variety  retraced 
Of  climes,  and  manners,  o'er  the  eastern  main  : 
Now  happy  Switzer's  hills — romantic  Spain, — 
Gay  lilied  fields  of  France, — or,  more  refined, 
The  soft  Ausonia's  monumental  reign  ; 
Nor  less  each  rural  image  he  design'd 
Than  all  the  city's  pomp  and  home  of  human  kind. 


Anon  some  wilder  portraiture  he  draws  ; 
Of  Nature's  savage  glories  he  would  speak, — 
The  loneliness  of  earth  that  overawes, — 
Where,  resting  by  some  tomb  of  old  Cacique, 
The  lama-driver  on  Peruvia's  peak 
Nor  living  voice  nor  motion  marks  around  ; 
But  storks  that  to  the  boundless  forest  shriek 
Or  wild-cane  arch  high  flung  o'er  gulf  profound, 
That  fluctuates  when  the  storms  of  El  Dorado  sound. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 


XVII 

Pleased  with  his  guest,  the  good  man  still  would  ply 
Each  earnest  question,  and  his  converse  court ; 
But  Gertrude,  as  she  eyed  him,  knew  not  why 
A  strange  and  troubling  wonder  stopt  her  short. 
"  In  England  thou  hast  been, — and,  by  report, 
An  orphan's  name  (quoth  Albert)  may'st  have  known. 
Sad  tale  ! — when  latest  fell  our  frontier  fort, — 
One  innocent — one  soldier's  child — alone 
Was  spared,  and  brought  to  me,  who  loved  him  as  my 
own. 


"  Young  Henry  Waldegrave  !  three  delightful  years 
These  very  walls  his  infant  sports  did  see  ; 
But  most  I  loved  him  when  his  parting  tears 
Alternately  bedew'd  my  child  and  me  : 
His  sorest  parting,  Gertrude,  was  from  thee  ; 
Nor  half  its  grief  his  little  heart  could  hold  : 
By  kindred  he  was  sent  for  o'er  the  sea, 
They  tore  him  from  us  when  but  twelve  years  old, 
And  scarcely  for  his  loss  have  I  been  yet  consoled  ?  " 

XIX 

His  face  the  wanderer  hid — but  could  not  hide 
A  tear,  a  smile,  upon  his  cheek  that  dwell  ; — 
"  And  speak  !  mysterious  stranger  !"  (Gertrude  cried) 
"  It  is  ! — it  is  ! — I  knew — I  knew  him  well ! 
'Tis  Waldegrave's  self,  of  Waldegrave  come  to  tell  !  " 
A  burst  of  joy  the  father's  lips  declare  ; 
But  Gertrude  speechless  on  his  bosom  fell : 
At  once  his  open  arms  embraced  the  pair  ; 
Was  never  group  more  blest  in  this  wide  world  of  care. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 


"  And  will  ye  pardon  then  "  (replied  the  youth) 
"  Your  Waldegrave's  feigned  name,  and  false  attire? 
I  durst  not  in  the  neighbourhood,  in  truth, 
The  very  fortunes  of  your  house  enquire  ; 
Lest  one  that  knew  me  might  some  tidings  dire 
Impart,  and  I  my  weakness  all  betray ; 
For  had  I  lost  my  Gertrude  and  my  sire, 
I  meant  but  o'er  your  tombs  to  weep  a  day  ; 
Unknown  I  meant  to  weep,  unknown  to  pass  away. 

XXI 

"  But  here  ye  live,  ye  bloom, — in  each  dear  face, 
The  changing  hand  of  time  I  may  not  blame  ; 
For  there,  it  hath  but  shed  more  reverend  grace, 
And  here,  of  beauty  perfected  the  frame  : 
And  well  I  know  your  hearts  are  still  the  same — 
They  could  not  change— ye  look  the  very  way, 
As  when  an  orphan  first  to  you  I  came. 
And  have  ye  heard  of  my  poor  guide,  I  pray  ? 

Nay,  wherefore  weep  ye,  friends,  on  such  a  joyous  day  ?  " 

XXII 

"  And  art  thou  here  ?  or  is  it  but  a  dream  ? 

And    wilt    thou,    Waldegrave,    wilt    thou,    leave    us 

more?" — 

' '  No,  never  !  thou  that  yet  dost  lovelier  seem 
Than  aught  on  earth — than  ev'n  thyself  of  yore — 
I  will  not  part  thee  from  thy  father's  shore  ; 
But  we  shall  cherish  him  with  mutual  arms, 
And  hand  in  hand  again  the  path  explore 
Which  every  ray  of  young  remembrance  warms, 
While  thou  shalt  be  my  own,   with  all  thy  truth  and 

charms  ! " 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 


At  morn,  as  if  beneath  a  galaxy 
Of  over-arching  groves  in  blossoms  white, 
Where  all  was  odorous  scent  and  harmony, 
And  gladness  to  the  heart,  nerve,  ear,  and  sight : 
There,  if,  O  gentle  Love  !  I  read  aright 
The  utterance  that  seal'd  thy  sacred  bond, 
'Twas  listening  to  these  accents  of  delight, 
She  hid  upon  his  breast  those  eyes,  beyond 
Expression's  power  to  paint,  all  languishingly  fond. — 

XXIV 

"  Flower  of  my  life,  so  lovely  and  so  lone  ! 
Whom  I  would  rather  in  this  desert  meet, 
Scorning,  and  scorn'd  by  fortune's  power,  than  own 
Her  pomp  and  splendours  lavish'd  at  my  feet ! 
Turn  not  from  me  thy  breath,  more  exquisite 
Than  odours  cast  on  heaven's  own  shrine,  to  please — 
Give  me  thy  love,  than  luxury  more  sweet, 
And  more  than  all  the  wealth  that  loads  the  breeze, 
When  Coromandel's  ships  return  from  Indian  seas."— 


Then  would  that  home  admit  them— happier  far 
Than  grandeur's  most  magnificent  saloon — 
While,  here  and  there,  a  solitary  star 
Flush'd  in  the  darkening  firmament  of  Juno  ; 
And  silence  brought  the  soul-felt  hour,  full  soon, 
Ineffable,  which  I  may  not  portray  ; 
For  never  did  the  hymenean  moon 
A  paradise  of  hearts  more  sacred  sway, 
In  all  that  slept  beneath  her  soft  voluptuous  ray. 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  103 


PART  III 


O  LOVE  !  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this, 
Where  transport  and  security  entwine, 
Here  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss, 
And  here  thou  art  a  god  indeed  divine. 
Here  shall  no  forms  abridge,  no  hours  confine, 
The  views,  the  walks,  that  boundless  joy  inspire  ! 
Roll  on,  ye  days  of  raptured  influence,  shine  ! 
Nor,  blind  with  ecstasy's  celestial  fire, 
Shall  love  behold  the  spark  of  earth-born  time  expire. 


Three  little  moons,  how  short,  amidst  the  grove 
And  pastoral  savannas  they  consume  ! 
While  she,  beside  her  buskin'd  youth  to  rove, 
Delights,  in  fancifully  wild  costume, 
Her  lovely  brow  to  shade  with  Indian  plume ; 
And  forth  in  hunter-seeming  vest  they  fare  ; 
But  not  to  chase  the  deer  in  forest  gloom, 
Tis  but  the  breath  of  heaven — the  blessed  air — 
And  interchange  of  hearts,  unknown,  unseen,  to  share. 


What  though  the  sportive  dog  oft  round  them  note, 
Or  fawn,  or  wild  bird  bursting  on  the  wing  ; 
Yet  who,  in  Love's  own  presence,  would  devote 
To  death  those  gentle  throats  that  wake  the  spring, 


104  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

Or  writhing  from  the  brook  its  victim  bring  ? 
No  ! — nor  let  fear  one  little  warbler  rouse  ; 
But,  fed  by  Gertrude's  hand,  still  let  them  sing, 
Acquaintance  of  her  path,  amidst  the  boughs, 
That  shade  ev'n  now  her  love,  and  witness'd  first  her 
vows. 


Now  labyrinths,  which  but  themselves  can  pierce, 
Methinks,  conduct  them  to  some  pleasant  ground, 
Where  welcome  hills  shut  out  the  universe, 
And  pines  their  lawny  walk  encompass  round  ; 
There,  if  a  pause  delicious  converse  found, 
'Twas  but  when  o'er  each  heart  th'  idea  stole, 
(Perchance  a  while  in  joy's  oblivion  drown'd), 
That  come  what  may,  while  life's  glad  pulses  roll, 
Indissolubly  thus  should  soul  be  knit  to  soul. 


And,  in  the  visions  of  romantic  youth, 
What  years  of  endless  bliss  are  yet  to  flow  ! 
But  mortal  pleasure,  what  art  thou  in  truth  ? 
The  torrent's  smoothness,  ere  it  dash  below. 
And  must  I  change  my  song  ?  and  must  I  show, 
Sweet  Wyoming  !  the  day  when  thou  vvert  doom'd, 
Guiltless,  to  mourn  thy  loveliest  bowers  laid  low  ! 
When,  where  of  yesterday  a  garden  bloom'd, 
Death     overspread     his     pall,     and     blackening    ashes 
gloom'd  ! 

VI 

Sad  was  the  year,  by  proud  oppression  driven, 
When  Transatlantic  Liberty  arose, 
Not  in  the  sunshine  and  the  smile  of  heaven, 
But  wrapt  in  whirlwinds,  and  begirt  with  woes, 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  105 

Amidst  the  strife  of  fratricidal  foes  ; 
Her  birth-star  was  the  light  of  burning  plains  ; 
Her  baptism  is  the  weight  of  blood  that  flows 
From  kindred  hearts — the  blood  of  British  veins — 
And  famine  tracks  her  steps,  and  pestilential  pains. 


Yet,  ere  the  storm  of  death  had  raged  remote, 
Or  siege  unseen  in  heaven  reflects  its  beams, 
Who  now  each  dreadful  circumstance  shall  note, 
That    fills    pale    Gertrude's    thoughts,    and    nightly 

dreams  ? 

Dismal  to  her  the  forge  of  battle  gleams 
Portentous  light  !  and  music's  voice  is  dumb  ; 
Save  where  the  fife  its  shrill  reveille  screams, 
Or  midnight  streets  re-echo  to  the  drum, 
That  speaks  of  maddening  strife,  and  bloodstain'd  fields 

to  come. 

VIII 

It  was  in  truth  a  momentary  pang  ; 
Yet  how  comprising  myriad  shapes  of  woe  ! 
First  when  in  Gertrude's  ear  the  summons  rang, 
A  husband  to  the  battle  doom'd  to  go  ! 
"  Nay  meet  not  thou  "  (she  cried)  "  thy  kindred  foe  ! 
But  peaceful  let  us  seek  fair  England's  strand  ! " 
"Ah,  Gertrude  !  thy  beloved  heart,  I  know, 
Would  feel  like  mine  the  stigmatizing  brand  ! 
Could  I  forsake  the  cause  of  Freedom's  holy  band  ! 


"  But  shame — but  flight — a  recreant's  name  to  prove, 

To  hide  in  exile  ignominious  fears  ; 

Say,  ev'n  if  this  I  brook'd,  the  public  love 

Thy  father's  bosom  to  his  home  endears  : 


106  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

And  how  could  I  his  few  remaining  years, 
My  Gertrude,  sever  from  so  dear  a  child  ?  " 
So,  day  by  day,  her  boding  heart  he  cheers  : 
At  last  that  heart  to  hope  is  half  beguiled, 
And  pale,  through  tears  suppress'd,  the  mournful  beauty- 
smiled. 


Night  came,  — and  in  their  lighted  bower,  full  late, 
The  joy  of  converse  had  endured — when,  hark  : 
Abrupt  and  loud,  a  summons  shook  their  gate  ; 
And  heedless  of  the  dog's  obstrep'rous  bark, 
A  form  had  rush'd  amidst  them  from  the  dark, 
And  spread  his  arms, — and  fell  upon  the  floor  : 
Of  aged  strength  his  limbs  retain 'd  the  mark  ; 
But  desolate  he  look'd,  and  famish'd  poor, 
As  ever  shipwreck'd  wretch  lone  left  on  desert  shore. 


Uprisen, — each  wondering  brow  is  knit  and  arch'd  : 
A  spirit  from  the  dead  they  deem  him  first : 
To  speak  he  tries  ;  but  quivering,  pale,  and  parch'd, 
From  lips,  as  by  some  powerless  dream  accursed, 
Emotions  unintelligible  burst ; 
And  long  his  filmed  eye  is  red  and  dim  ; 
At  length  the  pity-proffer'd  cup  his  thirst 
Had  half  assuaged,  and  nerved  his  shuddering  limb, 
When  Albert's  hand  he  grasp'd  ; — but  Albert  knew  not 
him — 


"  And  hast  thou  then  forgot,"  (he  cried  forlorn, 
And  eyed  the  group  with  half  indignant  air). 
"  Oh  !  hast  thou,  Christian  chief,  forgot  the  morn 
When  I  with  thee  the  cup  of  peace  did  share  ? 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  107 

Then  stately  was  this  head,  and  dark  this  hair, 
That  now  is  white  as  Appalachia's  snow  ; 
But,  if  the  weight  of  fifteen  years'  despair, 
And  age  hath  bow'd  me,  and  the  torturing  foe, 
Bring  me  my  boy — and  he  will  his  deliverer  know  ! " — 


It  was  not  long,  with  eyes  and  heart  of  flame, 

Ere  Henry  to  his  loved  Oneyda  flew  : 

"  Bless  thee,  my  guide  !  " — but  backward,  as  he  came, 

The  chief  his  old  bewilder'd  head  withdrew, 

And   grasp'd   his   arm,    and   look'd    and    look'd   him 

through, 

'Twas  strange — nor  could  the  group  a  smile  controul — 
The  long,  the  doubtful  scrutiny  to  view : — 
At  last  delight  o'er  all  his  features  stole, 
It  is — my  own,"  he  cried,  and  clasp'd  him  to  his  soul. 


"  Yes  !  thou  recall's!  my  pride  of  years,  for  then 
The  bowstring  of  my  spirit  was  not  slack, 
When,  spite  of  woods,  and  floods,  and  ambush'd  men, 
I  bore  thee  like  the  quiver  on  my  back, 
Fleet  as  the  whirlwind  hurries  on  the  rack  ; 
Nor  foeman  then,  nor  cougar's  crouch  I  fear'd, 
For  I  was  strong  as  mountain  cataract : 
And  dost  thou  not  remember  how  we  cheer'd, 

Upon  the  last  hill-top,  when  white  men's  huts  appear'd  ? 


' '  Then  welcome  be  my  death-song,  and  my  death  ! 
Since  I  have  seen  thee,  and  again  embraced." 
And  longer  had  he  spent  his  toil-worn  breath  ; 
But  with  affectionate  and  eager  haste 


108  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

Was  every  arm  outstretch'd  around  their  guest, 
To  welcome  and  to  bless  his  aged  head. 
Soon  was  the  hospitable  banquet  placed  ; 
And  Gertrude's  lovely  hands  a  balsam  shed 
On  wounds  with  fever'd  joy  that  more  profusely  bled. 

XVI 

"  But  this  is  not  a  time," — he  started  up, 

And  smote  his  breast  with  woe-denouncing  hand — 

"  This  is  no  time  to  fill  the  joyous  cup, 

The    Mammoth    comes,  —  the    foe,  —  the     Monster 

Brandt, — 

With  all  his  howling  desolating  band  ; — 
These  eyes  have  seen  their  blade  and  burning  pine 
Awake  at  once,  and  silence  half  your  land. 
Red  is  the  cup  they  drink  ;  but  not  with  wine  : 
Awake,  and  watch  to-night,  or  see  no  morning  shine  ! 


"  Scorning  to  wield  the  hatchet  for  his  bribe, 
'Gainst  Brandt  himself  I  went  to  battle  forth  : 
Accursed  Brandt  !  he  left  of  all  my  tribe 
Nor  man,  nor  child,  nor  thing  of  living  birth  : 
No  !  not  the  dog  that  watch'd  my  household  hearth 
Escaped,  that  night  of  blood,  upon  our  plains  ! 
All  perish'd  ! — I  alone  am  left  on  earth  ! 
To  whom  nor  relative  nor  blood  remains, 

No  ! — not  a  kindred  drop  that  runs  in  human  veins  ! 


'  But  go  ! — and  rouse  your  warriors  ; — for,  if  right 
These  old  bewilcler'd  eyes  could  guess,  by  signs 
Of  striped  and  starred  banners,  on  yon  height 
Of  eastern  cedars,  o'er  the  creek  of  pines — 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  109 

Some  fort  embattled  by  your  country  shines  : 
Deep  roars  th'  innavigable  gulf  below 
Its  squared  rock,  and  palisaded  lines. 
Go  !  seek  the  light  its  warlike  beacons  show  ; 
Whilst  I  in  ambush  wait,  for  vengeance,  and  the  foe  ! " 


Scarce  had  he  utter'd— when  Heaven's  verge  extreme 

Reverberates  the  bomb's  descending  star, — 

And   sounds   that   mingled   laugh, — and   shout, — and 

scream, — 

To  freeze  the  blood,  in  one  discordant  jar, 
Rung  to  the  pealing  thunderbolts  of  war. 
Whoop  after  whoop  with  rack  the  ear  assail'd ; 
As  if  unearthly  fiends  had  burst  their  bar  ; 
While  rapidly  the  marksman's  shot  prevail'd  : — • 
And  aye,  as  if  for  death,  some  lonely  trumpet  wail'd. 


Then  look'd  they  to  the  hills,  where  fire  o'erhung 
The  bandit  groups,  in  one  Vesuvian  glare  ; 
Or  swept,  far  seen,  the  tower,  whose  clock  unrung 
Told  legible  that  midnight  of  despair. 
She  faints,  she  falters  not,  th'  heroic  fair, 
As  he  the  sword  and  plume  in  haste  array'd. 
One  short  embrace — he  clasp'd  his  dearest  care — 
But  hark  !  what  nearer  war-drum  shakes  the  glade  ? 
Joy,  joy  !  Columbia's  friends  are  trampling  through  the 
shade  ! 

XXI 

Then  came  of  every  race  the  mingled  swarm, 
Far  rung  the  groves  and  gleam'd  the  midnight  grass, 
With  flambeau,  javelin,  and  naked  arm  ; 
As  warriors  wheel'd  their  culverins  of  brass, 


no  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

Sprung  from  the  woods,  a  bold  athletic  mass, 
Whom  virtue  fires,  and  liberty  combines  : 
And  first  the  wild  Moravian  yagers  pass, 
His  plumed  host  the  dark  Iberian  joins — 
And  Scotia's  sword  beneath  the  Highland  thistle  shines. 


And  in,  the  buskin'd  hunters  of  the  deer, 
To  Albert's  home,  with  shout  and  cymbal  throng  :  — 
Roused  by  their  warlike  pomp,  and  mirth,  and  cheer, 
Old  Outalissi  woke  his  battle-song, 
And,  beating  with  his  war-club  cadence  strong, 
Tells  how  his  deep-stung  indignation  smarts, 
Of  them  that  wrapt  his  house  in  flames,  ere  long, 
To  whet  a  dagger  on  their  stony  hearts, 
And  smile  avenged  ere  yet  his  eagle  spirit  parts. — 

XXIII 

Calm,  opposite  the  Christian  father  rose, 
Pale  on  his  venerable  brow  its  rays 
Of  martyr  light  the  conflagration  throws  ; 
One  hand  upon  his  lovely  child  he  lays, 
And  one  the  uncover'd  crowd  to  silence  sways  ; 
While,  though  the  battle  flash  is  faster  driven. — 
Unaw'd,  with  eye  unstartled  by  the  blaze, 
He  for  his  bleeding  country  prays  to  Heaven, — 
Prays  that  the  men  of  blood  themselves  may  be  forgiven. 


Short  time  is  now  for  gratulating  speech  : 
And  yet,  beloved  Gertrude,  ere  began 
Thy  country's  flight,  yon  distant  towers  to  reach, 
Look'd  not  on  thee  the  rudest  partisan 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

With  brow  relax'd  to  love  ?     And  murmurs  ran, 
As  round  and  round  their  willing  ranks  they  drew, 
From  beauty's  sight  to  shield  the  hostile  van. 
Grateful,  on  them  a  placid  look  she  threw, 
Nor  wept,  but  as  she  bade  her  mother's  grave  adieu  ! 


Past  was  the  flight,  and  welcome  seem'd  the  tower, 
That  like  a  giant  standard-bearer  frown'd 
Defiance  on  the  roving  Indian  power. 
Beneath,  each  bold  and  promontory  mound 
With  embrasure  emboss'd,  and  armour  crown'd, 
And  arrowy  frise,  and  wedged  ravelin, 
Wove  like  a  diadem  its  tracery  round 
The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green  ; 
Here  stood  secure  the  group,  and  eyed  a  distant  scene — 


A  scene  of  death  !  where  fires  beneath  the  sun, 
And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow  ; 
And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done, 
Its  requiem  the  war -horn  seem'd  to  blow  : 
There,  sad  spectatress* of  her  country's  woe  ! 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 
Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasp'd  her  hands  of  snow 
On  Waldegrave's  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  hush'd  its  wild  alarm  ! 


But  short  that  contemplation — sad  and  short 

The  pause  to  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu  ! 

Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort, 

Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners  flew, 


112  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

Ah  !  who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near  ? — yet  there,  with  lust  of  murd'rous  deeds, 
Gleam'd  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view, 
The  ambush'd  foeman's  eye — his  volley  speeds, 
And  Albert— Albert  falls  !  the  dear  old  father  bleeds  ! 

XXVIII 

And  tranced  in  giddy  horror  Gertrude  swoon'd  ; 
Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone, 
Say,  burst  they,  borrow'd  from  her  father's  wound, 
These  drops  ? — O  God  !  the  life-blood  is  her  own  ! 
And  faltering,  on  her  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown — 
"  Weep  not,  O  Love  !  " — she  cries,  "to  see  me  bleed — 
Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate  ;  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds ; — yet   thee  to  leave  is  death,   is   death 
indeed  ! 


"  Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  fate  !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress  ; 
And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat — oh  !  think, 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess, 
That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 
Oh  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 

God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I  am  laid  in  dust ! 


"Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart, — 
The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, — 
Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 
And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  113 

With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 
Of  peace,.imagining  her  lot  was  cast 
In  heaven  ;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 
And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ? 
No  !  I  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is  past. — 


XXXI 

"  Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth, — 
And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 
If  I  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 
Of  one  dear  pledge  ; — but  shall  there  then  be  none, 
In  future  times — no  gentle  little  one, 
To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me? 
Yet  seems  it,  ev'n  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 
A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 
Lord  of  my  bosom's  love  !  to  die  beholding  thee  !  " 


Hush'd  were  his  Gertrude's  lips  !  but  still  their  bland 
And  beautiful  expression  seem'd  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die  !  and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
Ah,  heart !  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair. 
Mute,  gazing,  agonizing,  as  he  knelt, — 
Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair, 
He  heard   some  friendly  words  ; — but   knew   not  what 
thev  were. 


For  now,  to  mourn  their  judge  and  child,  arrives 
A  faithful  band.     With  solemn  rites  between, 
'Twas  sung,  how  they  were  lovely  in  their  lives, 
And  in  their  deaths  had  not  divided  been. 


114  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 

Touch'd  by  the  music,  and  the  melting  scene, 
Was  scarce  one  tearless  eye  amidst  the  crowd  : — 
Stern  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were  seen 
To  veil  their  eyes,  as  pass'd  each  much-loved  shroud- 
While  woman's  softer  soul  in  woe  dissolved  aloud. 


Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 
Its  farewell,  o'er  the  grave  of  worth  and  truth  ; 
Prone  to  the  dust,  afflicted  Waldegrave  hid 
His  face  on  earth  ; — him  watch'd,  in  gloomy  ruth, 
His  woodland  guide  ;  but  words  had  none  to  soothe 
The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation's  name  : 
Casting  his  Indian  mantle  o'er  the  youth, 
He  watch'd,  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that  came 
Convulsive,  ague-like,  across  his  shuddering  frame  ! 


"  And  I  could  weep  ;  "— th'  Oneyda  chief 
His  descant  wildly  thus  begun  : 
"  But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  my  father's  son, 

Or  bow  this  head  in  woe  ! 
For  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  wrath  1 
To-morrow  Areouski's  breath, 
(That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death), 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe  : 
And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy  ! 
The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy  ! 

XXXVI 

"  But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  given 
By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep, 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  115 

The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heaven 

Forbid  not  thee  to  weep  : — 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host, 
Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve, 
To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve, 
Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 
Of  her  who  loved  thee  most  : 
She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight  ! 
Thy  sun — thy  heaven — of  lost  delight  ! 

XXXVII 

' '  To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die  ! 
But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurl'd, 
Ah  !  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly, 
Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world  ? 

Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 
The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers  : 
Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours  ! 
Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bowers  ! 

And  should  we  thither  roam, 
Its  echoes,  and  its  empty  tread, 
Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead  ! 

XXXVIII 

"  Or  shall  we  cross  yon  mountains  blue, 
Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaff'd, 
And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 
A  thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ? 
Ah  !  there,  in  desolation  cold, 
The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone, 
Where  grass  o'ergrows  each  mouldering  bone, 
And  stones  themselves  to  ruin  grown, 

Like  me,  are  death-like  old. 
Then  seek  we  not  their  camp, — for  there 
The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair  ! 


n6  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 


'  But  hark,  the  trump  !— to-morrow  thou 
In  glory's  fires  shall  dry  thy  tears  : 
Ev'n  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  appears, 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll ; 
He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst — 
He  bids  me  dry  the  last — the  first — 
The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 

From  Outalissi's  soul ; 
Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief ! " 

1809. 


O'CONNOR'S    CHILD; 

OR 

"THE  FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES 
BLEEDING" 


O'CONNOR'S   CHILD; 

OR, 
"THE    FLOWER    OF    LOVE    LIES    BLEEDING1 

I 

OH  !  once  trje  harp  of  Innisfail 

Was  strung  full  high  to  notes  of  gladness  ; 

But  yet  it  often  told  a  tale 

Of  more  prevailing  sadness. 

Sad  was  the  note,  and  wild  its  fall, 

As  winds  that  moan  at  night  forlorn 

Along  the  isles  of  Fion-Gall, 

When,  for  O'Connor's  child  to  mourn, 

The  harper  told,  how  lone,  how  far 

From  any  mansion's  twinkling  star, 

From  any  path  of  social  men, 

Or  voice,  but  from  the  fox's  den, 

The  lady  in  the  desert  dwelt ; 

And  yet  no  wrongs,  no  fear  she  felt  : 

Say,  why  should  dwell  in  place  so  wild, 

O'Connor's  pale  and  lovely  child  ? 


Sweet  lady  !  she  no  more  inspires 
Green  Erin's  hearts  with  beauty's  power, 
119 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD 

As,  in  the  palace  of  her  sires, 

She  bloom'd  a  peerless  flower. 

Gone  from  her  hand  and  bosom,  gone, 

The  royal  broche,  the  jewell'd  ring. 

That  o'er  her  dazzling  whiteness  shone, 

Like  dews  on  lilies  of  the  spring. 

Yet  why,  though  fall'n  her  brothers'  kerne, 

Beneath  De  Bourgo's  battle  stern, 

While  yet,  in  Leinster  unexplored, 

Her  friends  survive  the  English  sword  ; 

Why  lingers  she  from  Erin's  host, 

So  far  on  Galway's  shipwreck'd  coast ; 

Why  wanders  she  a  huntress  wild — 

O'Connor's  pale  and  lovely  child  ? 


in 


And,  fix'd  on  empty  space,  why  burn 

Her  eyes  with  momentary  wildness  ; 

And  wherefore  do  they  then  return 

To  more  than  woman's  mildness  ? 

Uishevell'd  are  her  raven  locks  ; 

On  Connocht  Moran's  name  she  calls  ; 

And  oft  amidst  the  lonely  rocks 

She  sings  sweet  madrigals. 

Placed  'midst  the  fox-glove  and  the  moss, 

Behold  a  parted  warrior's  cross  ! 

That  is  the  spot  where,  evermore, 

The  lady,  at  her  shieling  door, 

Enjoys  that,  in  communion  sweet, 

The  living  and  the  dead  can  meet, 

For,  lo  !  to  love-lorn  fantasy, 

The  hero  of  her  heart  is  nigh. 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD 


Bright  as  the  bow  that  spans  the  storm, 

In  Erin's  yellow  vesture  clad, 

A  son  of  light — a  lovely  form, 

He  comes  and  makes  her  glad  ; 

Now  on  the  grass-green  turf  he  sits, 

His  tassell'd  horn  beside  him  laid  ; 

Now  o'er  the  hills  in  chase  he  flits, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade  ! 

Sweet  mourner  !  these  are  shadows  vain 

That  cross  the  twilight  of  her  brain  ; 

Yet  she  will  tell  you,  she  is  blest, 

Of  Connocht  Moran's  tomb  possess'd, 

More  richly  than  in  Aghrim's  bower, 

When  bards  high  praised  her  beauty's  power, 

And  kneeling  pages  offer'd  up 

The  moral  in  a  golden  cup. 


' '  A  hero's  bride  !  this  desert  bower, 

It  ill  befits  thy  gentle  breeding  : 

And  wherefore  dost  thou  love  this  flower 

To  call — '  My  love  lies  bleeding  ? ' " 

"  This  purple  flower  my  tears  have  nursed 

A  hero's  blood  supplied  its  bloom  : 

I  love  it,  for  it  was  the  first 

That  grew  on  Connocht  Moran's  tomb. 

Oh  !  hearken,  stranger,  to  my  voice  ! 

This  desert  mansion  is  my  choice  ! 

And  blest,  though  fatal,  be  the  star 

That  led  me  to  its  wilds  afar  : 

For  here  these  pathless  mountains  free 

Gave  shelter  to  my  love  and  me  ; 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD 

And  every  rock  and  every  stone 
Bear  witness  that  he  was  my  own. 


"O'Connor's  child,  I  was  the  bud 
Of  Erin's  royal  tree  of  glory  ; 
But  woe  to  them  that  wrapt  in  blood 
The  tissue  of  my  story  ! 
Still  as  I  clasp  my  burning  brain, 
A  death-scene  rushes  on  my  sight  ; 
It  rises  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
The  bloody  feud — the  fatal  night, 
When,  chafing  Connocht  Moran's  scorn, 
They  call'd  my  hero  basely  born  ; 
And  bade  him  choose  a  meaner  bride 
Than  from  O'Connor's  house  of  pride. 
Their  tribe,  they  said,  their  high  degree, 
Was  sung  in  Tara's  psaltery  ; 
Witness  their  Eath's  victorious  brand, 
And  Cathal  of  the  bloody  hand  ; 
Glory  (they  said)  and  power  and  honour 
Were  in  the  mansion  of  O'Connor  : 
But  he,  my  loved  one,  bore  in  field 
A  humbler  crest,  a  meaner  shield. 

VII 

"Ah,  brothers  !  what  did  it  avail, 
That  fiercely  and  triumphantly 
Ye  fought  the  English  of  the  Pale, 
And  stemm'd  De  Bourgo's  chivalry  ! 
And  what  was  it  to  love  and  me, 
That  barons  by  your  standard  rode  ; 
Or  beal-fires  for  your  jubilee 
Upon  a  hundred  mountains  glow'd  ? 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD  123 

What  though  the  lords  of  tower  and  dome 
From  Shannon  to  the  North-sea  foam, — 
Thought  ye  your  iron  hands  of  pride 
Could  break  the  knot  that  love  had  tied  ? 
No  : — let  the  eagle  change  his  plume, 
The  leaf  its  hue,  the  flower  its  bloom  ; 
But  ties  around  this  heart  were  spun, 
That  could  not,  would  not,  be  undone  ! 


"  At  bleating  of  the  wild  watch-fold 
Thus  sang  my  love — '  Oh,  come  with  me  : 
Our  bark  is  on  the  lake,  behold 
Our  steeds  are  fasten'd  to  the  tree. 
Come  far  from  Castle-Connor's  clans  : — 
Come  with  thy  belted  forestere, 
And  I,  beside  the  lake  of  swans, 
Shall  hunt  for  thee  the  fallow-deer ; 
And  build  thy  hut,  and  bring  thee  home 
The  wild-fowl  and  the  honey-comb ; 
And  berries  from  the  wood  provide, 
And  play  my  clarshech  by  thy  side. 
Then  come,  my  love  ! ' — How  could  I  stay  ? 
Our  nimble  stag-hounds  track'd  the  way, 
And  I  pursued,  by  moonless  skies, 
The  light  of  Connocht  Moran's  eyes. 

IX 

"And  fast  and  far,  before  the  star 
Of  day-spring,  rush'd  we  through  the  glade, 
And  saw  at  dawn  the  lofty  bawn 
Of  Castle-Connor  fade. 
Sweet  was  to  us  the  hermitage 
Of  this  unplough'd,  untrodden  shore  ; 


124  O'CONNOR'S  CHILD 

Like  birds  all  joyous  from  the  cage, 
For  man's  neglect  we  loved  it  more  ; 
And  well  he  knew,  my  huntsman  dear, 
To  search  the  game  with  hawk  and  spear 
While  I,  his  evening  food  to  dress, 
Would  sing  to  him  in  happiness. 
But,  oh,  that  midnight  of  despair ! 
When  I  was  doom'd  to  rend  my  hair  : 
The  night,  to  me,  of  shrieking  sorrow  ! 
The  night,  to  him,  that  had  no  morrow  ! 


'•When  all  was  hush'd,  at  even  tide, 
I  heard  the  baying  of  their  beagle  : 
Be  hush'd  !  my  Connocht  Moran  cried, 
Tis  but  the  screaming  of  the  eagle. 
Alas  !  'twas  not  the  eyrie's  sound  ; 
Their  bloody  bands  had  track'd  us  out  : 
Up-listening  starts  our  couchant  hound—- 
And, hark  !  again,  that  nearer  shout 
Brings  faster  on  the  murderers. 
Spare — spare  him — Brazil — Desmond  fierce  ! 
In  vain — no  voice  the  adder  charms  ; 
Their  weapons  cross'd  my  sheltering  arms  : 
Another's  sword  has  laid  him  low — 
Another's  and  another's  ; 
And  every  hand  that  dealt  the  blow— 
Ah  me  !  it  was  a  brother's  ! 
Yes,  when  his  meanings  died  away, 
Their  iron  hands  had  dug  the  clay, 
And  o'er  his  burial  turf  they  trod, 
And  I  beheld— O  God  !  O  God  !— 
His  life-blood  oozing  from  the  sod. 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD  125 


"Warm  in  his  death- wounds  sepulchred, 
Alas  !  my  warrior's  spirit  brave 
Nor  mass  nor  ulla-lulla  heard, 
Lamenting,  soothe  his  grave. 
Dragg'd  to  their  hated  mansion  back, 
How  long  in  thraldom's  grasp  I  lay 
I  knew  not,  for  my  soul  was  black, 
And  knew  no  change  of  night  or  day. 
One  night  of  horror  round  me  grew ; 
Or  if  I  saw,  or  felt,  or  knew, 
'Twas  but  when  those  grim  visages, 
The  angry  brothers  of  my  race, 
Glared  on  each  eye-ball's  aching  throb, 
And  check'd  my  bosom's  power  to  sob, 
Or  when  my  heart  with  pulses  drear 
Beat  like  a  death-watch  to  my  ear. 


'  But  Heaven,  at  last,  my  soul's  eclipse 
Did  with  a  vision  bright  inspire  : 
I  woke  and  felt  upon  my  lips 
A  prophetess's  fire. 
Thrice  in  the  east  a  war-drum  beat, 
I  heard  the  Saxon's  trumpet  sound, 
And  ranged,  as  to  the  judgment-seat, 
My  guilty,  trembling  brothers  round. 
Clad  in  the  helm  and  shield  they  came  ; 
For  now  De  Bourgo's  sword  and  flame 
Had  ravaged  Ulster's  boundaries, 
And  lighted  up  the  midnight  skies. 
The  standard  of  O'Connor's  sway 
Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay  ; 


126  O'CONNOR'S  CHILD 

That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look, 
As  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 
I  gave, — that  every  bosom  shook 
Beneath  its  iron  mail. 


' '  And  go,'  I  cried,  '  the  combat  seek, 
Ye  hearts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister's  shriek, 
Go  ! — and  return  no  more  ! 
For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 
Shall  grasp  unhurt,  than  ye  shall  hold 
The  banner  with  victorious  hand, 
Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unroll'd.' 

0  stranger  !  by  my  country's  loss  ! 
And  by  my  love  !  and  by  the  cross  ! 

1  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  sever'd  nature's  yoke, 
But  that  a  spirit  o'er  me  stood, 

And  fired  me  with  the  wrathful  mood  ; 
And  frenzy  to  my  heart  was  given, 
To  speak  the  malison  of  heaven. 


"They  would  have  cross'd  themselves,  all  mute 

They  would  have  pray'd  to  burst  the  spell  ; 

But  at  the  stamping  of  my  foot 

Each  hand  down  powerless  fell ! 

'  And  go  to  Athunree  ! '  I  cried  ; 

'  High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride  ! 

But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls, 

The  weight  of  blood  is  on  your  souls  ! 

Go  where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 

Shall  Moat  as  high  as  mountain  fern  ! 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD  127 

Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know  ; 
The  nettles  on  your  hearth  shall  grow  ! 
Dead,  as  the  green  oblivious  flood 
That  mantles  by  your  walls,  shall  be 
The  glory  of  O'Connor's  blood  ! 
Away  !  away  to  Athunree  ! 
Where,  downward  when  the  sun  shall  fall, 
The  raven's  wing  shall  be  your  pall ! 
And  not  a  vassal  shall  unlace 
The  vizor  from  your  dying  face  ! ' 


"  A  bolt  that  overhung  our  dome 
Suspended  till  my  curse  was  given, 
Soon  as  it  pass'd  these  lips  of  foam, 
Peal'd  in  the  blood-red  heaven. 
Dire  was  the  look  that  o'er  their  backs 
The  angry  parting  brothers  threw  : 
But  now,  behold  !  like  cataracts, 
Come  down  the  hills  in  view 
O'Connor's  plumed  partisans  ; 
Thrice  ten  Kilnagorvian  clans 
Were  marching  to  their  doom  : 
A  sudden  storm  their  plumage  toss'd, 
A  flash  of  lightning  o'er  them  cross'd, 
And  all  again  was  gloom  ! 

XVI 

"  Stranger  !  I  fled  the  home  of  grief, 
At  Connocht  Moran's  tomb  to  fall  ; 
I  found  the  helmet  of  my  chief, 
His  bow  still  hanging  on  our  wall, 
And  took  it  down,  and  vow'd  to  rove 
This  desert  place  a  huntress  bold  ; 
Nor  would  I  change  my  buried  love 


128  O'CONNOR'S  CHILD 

For  any  heart  of  living  mould. 

No  !  for  I  am  a  hero's  child  ; 

I'll  hunt  my  quarry  in  the  wild  ; 

And  still  my  home  this  mansion  make, 

Of  all  unheeded  and  unheeding, 

And  cherish,  for  my  warrior's  sake — 

'  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding.'  " 

1810. 


POEMS,   1809-1836 
LYRICS 


FIELD   FLOWERS 

YE  field  flowers  !  the  gardens  eclipse  you,  'tis  true  ; 
Yet,  wildings  of  Nature,  I  doat  upon  you, 

For  ye  waft  me  to  summers  of  old, 
When  the  earth  teem'd  around  me  with  fairy  delight, 
And  when  daisies  and  buttercups  gladden'd  my  sight, 

Like  treasures  of  silver  and  gold. 

I  love  you  for  lulling  me  back  into  dreams 

Of  the  blue  Highland  mountains  and  echoing  streams, 

And  of  birchen  glades  breathing  their  balm, 
While  the  deer  was  seen  glancing  in  sunshine  remote, 
And  the  deep  mellow  crush  of  the  wood-pigeon's  note 

Made  music  that  sweeten'd  the  calm. 

Not  a  pastoral  song  has  a  pleasanter  tune 

Than  ye  speak  to  my  heart,  little  wildings  of  June  : 

Of  old  ruinous  castles  ye  tell, 

Where  I  thought  it  delightful  your  beauties  to  find, 
When  the  magic  of  Nature  first  breathed  on  my  mind, 

And  your  blossoms  were  part  of  her  spell. 

Even  now  what  affections  the  violet  awakes  ; 
What  loved  little  islands,  twice  seen  in  their  lakes, 

Can  the  wild  water-lily  restore  ; 
What  landscapes  I  read  in  the  primrose's  looks, 
And  what  pictures  of  pebbled  and  minnowy  brooks, 

In  the  vetches  that  tangled  their  shore. 


132  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Earth's  cultureless  buds,  to  my  heart  ye  were  dear, 
Ere  the  fever  of  passion,  or  ague  of  fear, 

Had  scathed  my  existence's  bloom  ; 
Once  I  welcome  you  more,  in  life's  passionless  stage, 
With  the  visions  of  youth  to  revisit  my  age  ; 

And  I  wish  you  to  grow  on  my  tomb. 

1826. 


TO  THE  RAINBOW 

TRIUMPHAL  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky 
When  storms  prepare  to  part, 

I  ask  not  proud  Philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art. — 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  Optics  teach,  unfold 

Thy  form  to  please  me  so, 
As  when  I  dreamt  of  gems  and  gold 

Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  ? 

When  Science  from  Creation's  face 
Enchantment's  veil  withdraws, 

What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws  ! 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams, 
But  words  of  the  Most  High, 

Have  told  why  first  thy  robe  of  beams 
Was  woven  in  the  sky. 


POEMS,  1809-1836  133 

When  o'er  the  green  undeluged  earth 
Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 

How  came  the  world's  grey  fathers  forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ! 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 

O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 
Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Methinks  thy  jubilee  to  keep 

The  first-made  anthem  rang 
On  earth  deliver'd  from  the  deep, 

And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 

Unraptured  greet  thy  beam  : 
Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 

Be  still  the  prophet's  theme  ! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 

The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 
When  glittering  in  the  freshen'd  fields 

The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle,  cast 

O'er  mountain,  tower,  and  town, 
Or  mirror'd  in  the  ocean  vast, 

A  thousand  fathoms  down  ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 

As  young  thy  beauties  seem 
As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 

First  sported  in  thy  beam  : 


134  POEMS,  1809-1836 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page, 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span, 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 

1819. 


SONG 

TO   THE    EVENING   STAR 

STAR  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  labourer  free  ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirr'd 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse  ; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

1821. 


POEMS,   1809-1836  135 


A  DREAM 

WELL  may  sleep  present  us  fictions, 

Since  our  waking  moments  teem 
With  such  fanciful  convictions 

As  make  life  itself  a  dream. — 
Half  our  daylight  faith 's  a  fable  ; 

Sleep  disports  with  shadows  too, 
Seeming  in  their  turn  as  stable 

As  the  world  we  wake  to  view. 
Ne'er  by  day  did  Reason's  mint 
Give  my  thoughts  a  clearer  print 
Of  assured  reality, 
Than  was  left  by  Phantasy 
Stamp'd  and  colour'd  on  my  sprite, 
In  a  dream  of  yesternight. 

In  a  bark,  methought,  lone  steering, 

I  was  cast  on  Ocean's  strife  ; 
This,  'twas  whisper"  d  in  my  hearing. 

Meant  the  sea  of  life. 
Sad  regrets  from  past  existence 

Came,  like  gales  of  chilling  breath 
Shadow'd  in  the  forward  distance 

Lay  the  land  of  Death. 
Now  seeming  more,  now  less  remote, 
On  that  dim-seen  shore,  methought, 
I  beheld  two  hands  a  space 
Slow  unshroud  a  spectre's  face  ; 
And  my  flesh's  hair  upstood, — 
'Twas  mine  own  similitude. 

But  my  soul  revived  at  seeing 
Ocean,  like  an  emerald  spark, 


136  POEMS,  1809-1836 

Kindle,  while  an  air-dropt  being 

Smiling  steer'd  my  bark. 
Heaven-like — yet  he  look'd  as  human 

As  supernal  beauty  can, 
More  compassionate  than  woman, 

Lordly  more  than  man. 
And  as  some  sweet  clarion's  breath 
Stirs  the  soldier's  scorn  of  death — 
So  his  accents  bade  me  brook 
The  spectre's  eyes  of  icy  look, 
Till  it  shut  them— turn'd  its  head, 
Like  a  beaten  foe,  and  fled. 

"Types  not  this,"  I  said,  "fair  spirit  ! 

That  my  death  hour  is  not  come  ? 
Say,  what  days  shall  I  inherit  ? — 

Tell  my  soul  their  sum." 
"No,"  he  said,  "yon  phantom's  aspect, 

Trust  me,  would  appal  thee  worse, 
Held  in  clearly  measured  prospect : — 

Ask  not  for  a  curse  ! 
Make  not,  for  I  overhear 
Thine  unspoken  thoughts  as  clear 
As  thy  mortal  ear  could  catch 
The  close-brought  tickings  of  a  watch — 
Make  not  the  untold  request 
That 's  now  revolving  in  thy  breast. 

"  'Tis  to  live  again,  remeasuring 

Youth's  years,  like  a  scene  rehearsed, 
In  thy  second  life-time  treasuring 

Knowledge  from  the  first. 
Hast  thou  felt,  poor  self-deceiver  ! 

Life's  career  so  void  of  pain, 
As  to  wish  its  fitful  fever 

New  begun  again  ? 


POEMS,   1809-1836  137 

Could  experience,  ten  times  thine, 
Pain  from  Being  disentwine — 
Threads  by  Fate  together  spun  ? 
Could  thy  flight  Heaven's  lightning  shun  ? 
No,  nor  could  thy  foresight's  glance 
'Scape  the  myriad  shafts  of  Chance. 


"  Wouldst  thou  bear  again  Love's  trouble — 

Friendship's  death-dissever'd  ties ; 
Toil  to  grasp  or  miss  the  bubble 

Of  Ambition's  prize  ? 
Say  thy  life's  new  guided  action 

Flow'd  from  Virtue's  fairest  springs — 
Still  would  Envy  and  Detraction 

Double  not  their  stings  ? 
Worth  itself  is  but  a  charter 
To  be  mankind's  distinguish'd  martyr." 
— I  caught  the  moral,  and  cried,  "  Hail ! 
Spirit  !  let  us  onward  sail 
Envying,  fearing,  hating  none- — 
Guardian  Spirit,  steer  me  on  !  " 


THE  LAST  MAN 

ALL  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 

The  Sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  Immortality  ! 


138  POEMS,  1809-1836 

I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 

That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time  ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould, 
That  shall  Creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime  ! 

The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan, 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man  ! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight, — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands  ; 

In  plague  and  famine  some  ! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread  ; 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb  ! 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood 

As  if  a  storm  pass'd  by, 
Saying,  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun  ! 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go  : 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 
His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill  ; 

And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and  earth, 
The  vassals  of  his  will  ? — 

Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 

Thou  dim  discrowned  king  of  day  : 


POEMS,   1809-1836  139 

For  aH  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Heal'd  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

Entail'd  on  human  hearts. 

Go,  let  Oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men, 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again  : 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe  ; 
Stretch'd  in  disease's  shapes  abhorr'd, 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Ev'n  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire  ; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall, — 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost ! 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark  ; 
Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark  ! 
No  !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  Him  recall'd  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  Captivity, 


POEMS,   1809-1836 

Who  robb'd  the  grave  of  Victory, — 
And  took  the  sting  from  Death  ! 

Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste — 
Go,  tell  the  Night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  Immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God  ! 

1823. 


ABSENCE 

'Tis  nottthe  loss  of  love's  assurance, 

It  is  not  doubting  what  thou  art, 
But  'tis  the  too,  too  long  endurance 

Of  absence,  that  afflicts  my  heart. 

The  fondest  thoughts  two  hearts  can  cherish, 
When  each  is  lonely  doom  VI  to  weep, 

Are  fruits  on  desert  isles  that  perish, 
Or  riches  buried  in  the  deep. 

What  though,  untouch'd  by  jealous  madness, 
Our  bosom's  peace  may  fall  to  wreck  ; 

Th"  undoubting  heart,  that  breaks  with  sadness. 
Is  but  more  slowly  doom'd  to  break. 


POEMS,  1809-1836  141 

Absence  !  is  not  the  soul  torn  by  it 

From  more  than  light,  or  life,  or  breath  ? 

Tis  Lethe's  gloom,  but  not  its  quiet, — 
The  pain  without  the  peace  of  death  ! 

1821. 


HALLOWED    GROUND 

WHAT'S  hallow'd  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That's  hallow'd  ground — where,  mourn'd  and  miss'd, 

The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kiss'd  ; — 

But  where 's  their  memory's  mansion  ?     Is't 

Von  churchyard's  bowers  ? 
No  !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound  : 
The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallow'd  down  to  earth's  profound, 

And  up  to  heaven  ! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old  ; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 


I42  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mould  ; 

And  will  not  cool, 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  ! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom  ; 
Or  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb : 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind — 

And  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ? — 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind, 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? 
He 's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws  : — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A  noble  cause  ! 

Give  that !  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums  !  and  rend  Heaven's  reeking  space  ! 

The  colours  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer, 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  ! — but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal. 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 


POEMS,   1809-1836  143 

O  God  above  ! 

Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 
To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace,  Love  !  the  cherubim,  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine, 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 

Where  they  are  not — 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august  ? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt, 
That  man  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chaunt. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man  ! 
Thy  temples — creeds  themselves,  grow  wan  ! 
But  there's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban — 

Its  space  is  Heaven  ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where,  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling, 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 

By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars  !  are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death  your  worlds  obscure  ? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 


144  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Aspect  above  ? 

Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us  sure 
Of  heavenly  love  ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time  ; 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

What's  hallow'd  ground?     'Tis  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  ! — 
Peace  !  Independence  !  Truth  !  go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round ; 
And  your  high-priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallow'd  ground, 

1825 


LINES 

ON    A   PICTURE  OF   A   GIRL   IN  THE   ATTITUDE  OF 
PRAYER 

By  the  Artist  Greuze,  in  the  possession  of  Lady  Stepney 

WAS  man  e'er  doom'd  that  beauty  made 
By  mimic  art  should  haunt  him  ; 

Like  Orpheus,  I  adore  a  shade, 
And  dote  upon  a  phantom. 

Thou  maid  that  in  my  inmost  thought 

Art  fancifully  sainted, 
Why  liv'st  thou  not — why  art  thou  nought 

But  canvas  sweetly  painted  ? 


POEMS,    1809-1836  145 

Whose  looks  seem  lifted  to  the  skies, 

Too  pure  for  love  of  mortals — 
As  if  they  drew  angelic  eyes 

To  greet  thee  at  heaven's  portals. 

Yet  loveliness  has  here  no  grace 

Abstracted  or  ideal — 
Art  ne'er  but  from  a  living  face 

Drew  looks  so  seeming  real. 

What  wert  thou,  maid  ? — thy  life — thy  name 

Oblivion  hides  in  mystery  ; 
Though  from  thy  face  my  heart  could  frame 

A  long  romantic  history. 

Transported  to  thy  time  I  seem, 

Though  dust  thy  coffin  covers — 
And  hear  the  songs,  in  fancy's  dream, 

Of  thy  devoted  lovers. 

How  witching  must  have  been  thy  breath — 

How  sweet  the  living  charmer — 
Whose  every  semblance  after  death 

Can  make  the  heart  grow  warmer  ! 

Adieu,  the  charms  that  vainly  move 

My  soul  in  their  possession — 
That  prompt  my  lips  to  speak  of  love, 

Yet  rob  them  of  expression. 

Yet  thee,  dear  picture,  to  have  praised 

Was  but  a  poet's  duty  ; 
And  shame  to  him  that  ever  gazed 

Impassive  on  thy  beauty. 

1830. 


146  POEMS,  1809-1836 


SONG 

WHEN  Napoleon  was  flying 
From  the  field  of  Waterloo, 

A  British  soldier  dying 
To  his  brother  bade  adieu  ! 

"And  take,"  he  said,  "this  token 
To  the  maid  that  owns  my  faith, 

With  the  words  that  I  have  spoken 
In  affection's  latest  breath." 

Sore  mourn'd  the  brother's  heart, 
When  the  youth  beside  him  fell ; 

But  the  trumpet  warn'd  to  part, 
And  they  took  a  sad  farewell. 

There  was  many  a  friend  to  lose  him 
For  that  gallant  soldier  sigh'd  ; 

But  the  maiden  of  his  bosom 
Wept  when  all  their  tears  were  dried. 

1818. 


FAREWELL  TO   LOVE 

I  HAD  a  heart  that  doted  once  in  passion's  boundless  pain, 
And  though  the  tyrant  I  abjured,  I  could  not  break  his 

chain  ; 
But  now  that   Fancy's  fire  is  quench'd,  and   ne'er  can 

burn  anew, 
I've  bid  to  Love,  for  all  my  life,  adieu  !  adieu  !  adieu  ! 


POEMS,    1809-1836  147 

I've  known,  if  ever  mortal  knew,  the  spells  of  Beauty's 

thrall, 
And  if  my  song  has  told  them  not,  my  soul  has  felt 

them  all ; 
But    Passion    robs   my   peace   no   more,    and    Beauty's 

witching  sway 
Is  now  to  me  a  star  that's  fall'n — a  dream  that's  pass'd 

away. 

Hail  !  welcome  tide  of  life,  when  no  tumultuous  billows 

roll, 
How  wondrous  to  myself  appears  this  halcyon  calm  of 

soul ! 
The  wearied  bird  blown  o'er  the  deep  would  sooner  quit 

its  shore, 
Than  I  would  cross  the  gulf  again  that  time  has  brought 

me  o'er. 

Why  say  they  Angels  feel  the  flame  ? — O  spirits  of  the 

skies  ! 
Can   love   like   ours,   that   dotes   on   dust,   in   heavenly 

bosoms  rise  ? — 
Ah  no  !  the  hearts  that   best  have  felt  its  power,  the 

best  can  tell, 
That  peace  on  earth  itself  begins,  when  Love  has  bid 

farewell. 

1830. 

SONG 

"MEN  OF  ENGLAND" 

MEN  of  England  !  who  inherit 

Rights  that  cost  your  sires  their  blood  ! 

Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

Has  been  proved  on  field  and  flood  ; 


I48  POEMS,  1809-1836 

By  the  foes  you've  fought  uncounted, 
By  the  glorious  deeds  ye've  done, 

Trophies  captured — breaches  mounted, 
Navies  conquer'd — kingdoms  won  ! 

Yet,  remember,  England  gathers 
Hence  but  fruitless  wreaths  of  fame, 

If  the  freedom  of  your  fathers 

Glow  not  in  your  hearts  the  same. 

What  are  monuments  of  bravery, 
Where  no  public  virtues  bloom  ? 

What  avail  in  lands  of  slavery, 

Trophied  temples,  arch,  and  tomb  ? 

Pageants  ! — Let  the  world  revere  us 
For  our  people's  rights  and  laws, 

And  the  breasts  of  civic  heroes 
Bared  in  Freedom's  holy  cause. 

Yours  are  Hampden's,  Russell's  glory, 
Sidney's  matchless  shade  is  yours, — 

Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 

Worth  a  hundred  Agincourts  ! 

We're  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 
Crown'd  and  mitred  tyranny  ; — 

They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold 
For  their  birthrights — so  will  we  ! 

1821. 


POEMS,   1809-1836  I49 

LINES 

ON   THE  CAMP   HILL,    NEAR   HASTINGS 

IN  the  deep  blue  of  eve, 
Ere  the  twinkling  of  stars  had  begun, 

Or  the  lark  took  his  leave 
Of  the  skies  and  the  sweet  setting  sun, 

I  climb'd  to  yon  heights, 
Where  the  Norman  encamp'd  him  of  old, 

With  his  bowmen  and  knights, 
And  his  banner  all  burnish'd  with  gold. 

At  the  Conqueror's  side 
There  his  minstrelsy  sat  harp  in  hand, 

In  pavilion  wide  ; 
And  they  chaunted  the  deeds  of  Roland. 

Still  the  ramparted  ground 
With  a  vision  my  fancy  inspires, 

And  I  hear  the  trump  sound, 
As  it  marshall'd  our  Chivalry's  sires. 

On  each  turf  of  that  mead 
Stood  the  captors  of  England's  domains, 

That  ennobled  her  breed 
And  high-mettled  the  blood  of  her  veins. 

Over  hauberk  and  helm 
As  the  sun's  setting  splendour  was  thrown, 

Thence  they  look'd  o'er  a  realm — 
And  to-morrow  beheld  it  their  own. 

1831. 


BALLADS   AND    ROMANCES 


REULLURA 

STAR  of  the  morn  and  eve, 

Reullura  shone  like  thee, 
And  well  for  her  might  Aodh  grieve, 

The  dark-attired  Culdee. 
Peace  to  their  shades  !  the  pure  Culdees 

Were  Albyn's  earliest  priests  of  God, 
Ere  yet  an  island  of  her  seas 

By  foot  of  Saxon  monk  was  trod, 
Long  ere  her  churchmen  by  bigotry 
Were  barr'd  from  wedlock's  holy  tie. 
'Twas  then  that  Aodh,  famed  afar, 

In  lona  preach'd  the  word  with  power, 
And  Reullura,  beauty's  star, 

Was  the  partner  of  his  bower. 

But,  Aodh,  the  roof  lies  low, 

And  the  thistle-down  waves  bleaching, 
And  the  bat  flits  to  and  fro 

Where  the  Gael  once  heard  thy  preaching 
And  fall'n  is  each  column'd  aisle 

Where  the  chiefs  and  the  people  knelt. 
'Twas  near  that  temple's  goodly  pile 

That  honoured  of  men  they  dwelt. 
For  Aodh  was  wise  in  the  sacred  law, 
And  bright  Reullura's  eyes  oft  saw 

153 


154  POEMS,  1809-1836 

The  veil  of  fate  uplifted. 
Alas,  with  what  visions  of  awe 

Her  soul  in  that  hour  was  gifted — 
When  pale  in  the  temple  and  faint, 

With  Aodh  she  stood  alone 
By  the  statue  of  an  aged  Saint  ! 

Fair  sculptured  was  the  stone, 
It  bore  a  crucifix  ; 

Fame  said  it  once  had  graced 
A  Christian  temple,  which  the  Picts 

In  the  Britons'  land  laid  waste  : 
The  Pictish  men,  by  St.  Columb  taught, 
Had  hither  the  holy  relic  brought. 
Reullura  eyed  the  statue's  face, 

And  cried,  "It  is,  he  shall  come, 
Even  he,  in  this  very  place, 

To  avenge  my  martyrdom. 

"  For,  woe  to  the  Gael  people  ! 

Ulvfagre  is  on  the  main, 
And  lona  shall  look  from  tower  and  steeple 

On  the  coming  ships  of  the  Dane  ; 
And,  dames  and  daughters,  shall  all  your  locks 

With  the  spoiler's  grasp  entwine  ? 
No  !  some  shall  have  shelter  in  caves  and  rocks, 

And  the  deep  sea  shall  be  mine. 
Baffled  by  me  shall  the  Dane  return, 
And  here  shall  his  torch  in  the  temple  burn, 
Until  that  holy  man  shall  plough 

The  waves  from  Innisfail. 
His  sail  is  on  the  deep  e'en  now, 

And  swells  to  the  southern  gale." 

"  Ah  !  knowest  thou  not,  my  bride," 
The  holy  Aodh  said. 


BALLADS  AND  ROMANCES  155 

' '  That  the  Saint  whose  form  we  stand  beside 
Has  for  ages  slept  with  the  dead  ?  " 
"  He  liveth,  he  liveth,"  she  said  again, 

"  For  the  span  of  his  life  tenfold  extends 
Beyond  the  wonted  years  of  men. 

He  sits  by  the  graves  of  well-loved  friends 
That  died  ere  thy  grandsire's  grandsire's  birth  ; 
The  oak  is  decayed  with  age  on  earth, 
Whose  acorn-seed  had  been  planted  by  him  ; 

And  his  parents  remember  the  day  of  dread 
When  the  sun  on  the  cross  look'd  dim, 

And  the  graves  gave  up  their  dead. 
Yet  preaching  from  clime  to  clime, 

He  hath  roam'd  the  earth  for  ages, 
And  hither  he  shall  come  in  time 

When  the  wrath  of  the  heathen  rages, 
In  time  a  remnant  from  the  sword — 

Ah  !  but  a  remnant  to  deliver  ; 
Yet,  blest  be  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

His  martyrs  shall  go  into  bliss  for  ever. 
Lochlin,  appall'd,  shall  put  up  her  steel, 
And  thou  shalt  embark  on  the  bounding  keel ; 
Safe  shalt  thou  pass  through  her  hundred  ships, 

With  the  Saint  and  a  remnant  of  the  Gael, 
And  the  Lord  will  instruct  thy  lips 

To  preach  in  Innisfail. " 

The  sun,  now  about  to  set, 

Was  burning  o'er  Tiree, 
And  no  gathering  cry  rose  yet 

O'er  the  isles  of  Albyn's  sea, 
Whilst  Reullura  saw  far  rowers  dip 

Their  oars  beneath  the  sun, 
And  the  phantom  of  many  a  Danish  ship, 

Where  ship  there  yet  was  none. 


156  POEMS,   1809-1836 

And  the  shield  of  alarm  was  dumb, 

Nor  did  their  warning  till  midnight  come, 

When  watch-fires  burst  from  across  the  main, 

From  Rona,  and  Uist,  and  Skye, 
To  tell  that  the  ships  of  the  Dane 

And  the  red-hair'd  slayers  were  nigh. 

Our  islemen  arose  from  slumbers, 

And  buckled  on  their  arms  ; 
But  few,  alas  !  were  their  numbers 

To  Lochlin's  mailed  swarms. 
And  the  blade  of  the  bloody  Norse 

Has  fill'd  the  shores  of  the  Gael 
With  many  a  floating  corse, 

And  with  many  a  woman's  wail. 
They  have  lighted  the  islands  with  ruin's  torch, 
And  the  holy  men  of  lona's  church 
In  the  temple  of  God  lay  slain, 

All  but  Aodh,  the  last  Culdee  ; 
But  bound  with  many  an  iron  chain, 

Bound  in  that  church  was  he. 
And  where  is  Aodh's  bride  ? 

Rocks  of  the  ocean  flood  ! 
Plunged  she  not  from  your  heights  in  pride, 

And  mock'd  the  men  of  blood  ? 
Then  Ulvfagre  and  his  bands 

In  the  temple  lighted  their  banquet  up, 
And  the  print  of  their  blood-red  hands 

Was  left  on  the  altar  cup. 
'Twas  then  that  the  Norseman  to  Aodh  said, 
"  Tell  where  thy  church's  treasure's  laid, 
Or  I'll  hew  thee  limb  from  limb." 

As  he  spoke  the  bell  struck  three, 
And  every  torch  grew  dim 

That  lighted  their  revelry. 


BALLADS  AND  ROMANCES  157 

But  the  torches  again  burnt  bright, 

And  brighter  than  before, 
When  an  aged  man  of  majestic  height 

Enter'd  the  temple  door. 
Hush'd  was  the  revellers'  sound, 

They  were  struck  as  mute  as  the  dead, 
And  their  hearts  were  appall'd  by  the  very  sound 

Of  his  footsteps'  measured  tread. 
Nor  word  was  spoken  by  one  beholder, 
Whilst  he  flung  his  white  robe  back  on  his  shoulder, 
And  stretching  his  arms — as  eath 

Unriveted  Aodh's  bands, 
As  if  the  gyves  had  been  a  wreath 

Of  willows  in  his  hands. 


All  saw  the  stranger's  similitude 

To  the  ancient  statue's  form  ; 
The  Saint  before  his  own  image  stood, 

And  grasp'd  Ulvfagre's  arm. 
Then  uprose  the  Danes  at  last  to  deliver 

Their  chief,  and  shouting  with  one  accord, 
They  drew  the  shaft  from  its  rattling  quiver, 

They  lifted  the  spear  and  sword, 
And  levell'd  their  spears  in  rows. 
But  down  went  axes  and  spears  and  bows, 
When  the  Saint  with  his  crosier  sign'd  ; 

The  archer's  hand  on  the  string  was  stopt, 
And  down,  like  reeds  laid  flat  by  the  wind, 

Their  lifted  weapons  dropt. 
The  Saint  then  gave  a  signal  mute, 

And  though  Ulvfagre  will'd  it  not, 
He  came  and  stood  at  the  statue's  foot, 

Spell-riveted  to  the  spot, — 
Till  hands  invisible  shook  the  wall, 


158  POEMS,   1809-1836 

And  the  tottering  image  was  dash'd 
Down  from  its  lofty  pedestal. 

On  Ulvfagre's  helm  it  crash'd — 
Helmet,  and  skull,  and  flesh,  and  brain, 
It  crush'd  as  millstone  crushes  the  grain. 
Then  spoke  the  Saint,  whilst  all  and  each 

Of  the  Heathen  trembled  round, 
And  the  pauses  amidst  his  speech 

Were  as  awful  as  the  sound  : 


"  Go  back,  ye  wolves  !  to  your  dens,"  he  cried, 

' '  And  tell  the  nations  abroad, 
How  the  fiercest  of  your  herd  has  died 

That  slaughter'd  the  flock  of  God. 
Gather  him  bone  by  bone, 

And  take  with  you  o'er  the  flood 
The  fragments  of  that  avenging  stone 

That  drank  his  heathen  blood. 
These  are  the  spoils  from  lona's  sack, 
The  only  spoils  ye  shall  carry  back  ; 
For  the  hand  that  uplifteth  spear  or  sword 

Shall  be  wither'd  by  palsy's  shock, 
And  I  come  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 

To  deliver  a  remnant  of  his  flock." 


A  remnant  was  call'd  together, 

A  doleful  remnant  of  the  Gael, 
And  the  Saint  in  the  ship  that  had  brought  him  hither 

Took  the  mourners  to  Innisfail. 
Unscathed  they  left  lona's  strand, 

When  the  opal  morn  first  flush'd  the  sky, 
For  the  Norse  dropt  spear,  and  bow,  and  brand, 

And  look'd  on  them  silently  ; 


BALLADS  AND  ROMANCES  159 

Safe  from  their  hiding-places  came 

Orphans  and  mothers,  child  and  dame : 

But,  alas  !  when  the  search  for  Reullura  spread, 

No  answering  voice  was  given, 
For  the  sea  had  gone  o'er  her  lovely  head, 

And  her  spirit  was  in  Heaven. 

1824. 


THE  TURKISH   LADY 

TWAS  the  hour  when  rites  unholy 
Call'd  each  Paynim  voice  to  prayer, 

And  the  star  that  faded  slowly 
Left  to  dews  the  freshen'd  air. 

Day  her  sultry  fires  had  wasted, 

Calm  and  sweet  the  moonlight  rose  ; 

Ev'n  a  captive  spirit  tasted 
Half  oblivion  of  his  woes. 

Then  'twas  from  an  Emir's  palace 
Came  an  Eastern  lady  bright  : 

She,  in  spite  of  tyrants  jealous, 
Saw  and  loved  an  English  knight. 

"  Tell  me,  captive,  why  in  anguish 
Foes  have  dragg'd  thee  here  to  dwell, 

Where  poor  Christians  as  they  languish 
Hear  no  sound  of  Sabbath  bell  ?  "- 

"'Twas  on  Translyvania's  Bannat, 
When  the  Crescent  shone  afar, 

Like  a  pale  disastrous  planet 
O'er  the  purple  tide  of  war — 


160  POEMS,   1809-1836 

In  that  day  of  desolation, 

Lady,  I  was  captive  made  ; 
Bleeding  for  my  Christian  nation 

By  the  walls  of  high  Belgrade." 

"  Captive  !  could  the  brightest  jewel 
From  my  turban  set  thee  free  ?  " 

"  Lady,  no  ! — the  gift  were  cruel, 
Ransom'd,  yet  if  reft  of  thee. 

Say,  fair  princess  !  would  it  grieve  thee 
Christian  climes  should  we  behold  ?"  — 

"  Nay,  bold  knight !  I  would  not  leave  thee 
Were  thy  ransom  paid  in  gold  !  " 

Now  in  Heaven's  blue  expansion 
Rose  the  midnight  star  to  view, 

When  to  quit  her  father's  mansion 
Thrice  she  wept,  and  bade  adieu  ! 

"  Fly  we  then,  while  none  discover  ! 

Tyrant  barks,  in  vain  ye  ride  !  "- 
Soon  at  Rhodes  the  British  lover 

Clasp'd  his  blooming  Eastern  bride. 

1809. 


EARL  MARCH 

EARL  MARCH  look'd  on  his  dying  child, 
And  smit  with  grief  to  view  her — 

The  youth,  he  cried,  whom  I  exiled, 
Shall  be  restored  to  woo  her. 


BALLADS  AND  ROMANCES  161 

She's  at  the  window  many  an  hour 

His  coming  to  discover  : 
And  he  look'd  up  to  Ellen's  bower, 

And  she  look'd  on  her  lover — 

But  ah  !  so  pale,  he  knew  her  not, 
Though  her  smile  on  him  was  dwelling. 

And  am  I  then  forgot — forgot  ? — 
It  broke  the  heart  of  Ellen. 

In  vain  he  weeps,  in  vain  he  sighs, 

Her  cheek  is  cold  as  ashes  ; 
Nor  love's  own  kiss  shall  wake  those  eyes 
To  lift  their  silken  lashes. 


ADELGITHA 

THE  ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded, 
And  sad  pale  ADELGITHA  came, 

When  forth  a  valiant  champion  bounded, 
And  slew  the  slanderer  of  her  fame. 

She  wept,  deliver'd  from  her  danger  ; 

But  when  he  knelt  to  claim  her  glove — 
"  Seek  not,"  she  cried,  "O  gallant  stranger, 

For  hapless  ADELGITHA'S  love. 

"  For  he  is  in  a  foreign  far  land 

Whose  arms  should  now  have  set  me  free  ; 
And  I  must  wear  the  willow  garland 

For  him  that's  dead,  or  false  to  me." 

"  Nay  !  say  not  that  his  faith  is  tainted  !  " 
He  raised  his  vizor — At  the  sight 

She  fell  into  his  arms  and  fainted  ; 
It  was  indeed  her  own  true  knight  ! 

1822. 


162  POEMS,   1809-1836 


THE   RITTER   BANN 

THE  Ritter  Barm  from  Hungary 
Came  back,  renown'cl  in  arms, 

But  scorning  jousts  of  chivalry, 
And  love  and  ladies'  charms. 

While  other  knights  held  revels,  he 
Was  wrapt  in  thoughts  of  gloom, 

And  in  Vienna's  hostelrie 
Slow  paced  his  lonely  room. 

There  enter'd  one  whose  face  he  knew, — 

Whose  voice,  he  was  aware, 
He  oft  at  mass  had  listen'd  to 

In  the  holy  house  of  prayer. 

Twas  the  Abbot  of  St.  James's  monks, 

A  fresh  and  fair  old  man  : 
His  reverend  air  arrested  even 

The  gloomy  Ritter  Bann. 

But  seeing  with  him  an  ancient  dame 

Come  clad  in  Scotch  attire, 
The  Ritter's  colour  went  and  came, 

And  loud  he  spoke  in  ire  : 

"  Ha  !  nurse  of  her  that  was  my  bane, 

Name  not  her  name  to  me  ; 
I  wish  it  blotted  from  my  brain : 

Art  poor? — take  alms,  and  flee." 

"Sir  Knight,"  the  abbot  interposed, 
"This  case  your  ear  demands  ;  " 

And  the  crone  cried,  with  a  cross  enclosed 
In  both  her  trembling  hands  : 


BALLADS  AND  ROMANCES  163 

"  Remember,  each  his  sentence  waits  ; 

And  he  that  shall  rebut 
Sweet  Mercy's  suit,  on  him  the  gates 

Of  Mercy  shall  be  shut. 

"You  wedded,  undispensed  by  Church, 

Your  cousin  Jane  in  Spring  ; — 
In  Autumn,  when  you  went  to  search 

For  churchmen's  pardoning, 

"  Her  house  denounced  your  marriage-band, 

Betroth'd  her  to  De  Grey, 
And  the  ring  you  put  upon  her  hand 

Was  wrench'd  by  force  away. 

"  Then  wept  your  Jane  upon  my  neck, 

Crying,  '  Help  me,  nurse,  to  flee 
To  my  Howel  Bann's  Glamorgan  hills  ; ' 

But  word  arrived — ah  me  ! — 

"  You  were  not  there  ;  and  'twas  their  threat, 

By  foul  means  or  by  fair, 
To-morrow  morning  was  to  set 

The  seal  on  her  despair. 

"  I  had  a  son,  a  sea- boy,  in 

A  ship  at  Hartland  Bay  ; 
By  his  aid  from  her  cruel  kin 

I  bore  my  bird  away. 

' '  To  Scotland  from  the  Devon's 

Green  myrtle  shores  we  fled  ; 
And  the  Hand  that  sent  the  ravens 

To  Elijah,  gave  us  bread. 

"  She  wrote  you  by  my  son,  but  he 
From  England  sent  us  word 


164  POEMS,   1809-1836 

You  had  gone  into  some  far  count  rie, 
In  grief  and  gloom,  he  heard. 

"  For  they  that  wrong'd  you,  to  elude 
Your  wrath,  defamed  my  child  ; 

And  you — ay,  blush,  Sir,  as  you  should — 
Believed,  and  were  beguiled. 

"  To  die  but  at  your  feet,  she  vow'd 

To  roam  the  world  ;  and  we 
Would  both  have  sped  and  begg'd  our  bread, 

But  so  it  might  not  be. 

"  For  when  the  snow-storm  beat  our  roof. 

She  bore  a  boy,  Sir  Bann, 
Who  grew  as  fair  your  likeness1  proof 

As  child  e'er  grew  like  man. 

"  'Twas  smiling  on  that  babe  one  morn 
While  heath  bloom'd  on  the  moor, 

Her  beauty  struck  young  Lord  Kinghorn 
As  he  hunted  past  our  door. 

"  She  shunn'd  him,  but  he  raved  of  Jane, 
And  roused  his  mother's  pride  : 

Who  came  to  us  in  high  disdain, — 
'  And  where's  the  face,'  she  cried, 

"  '  Has  witch'd  my  boy  to  wish  for  one 

So  wretched  for  his  wife  ? — 
Dost  love  thy  husband  ?     Know,  my  son 

Has  sworn  to  seek  his  life.' 

"  Her  anger  sore  dismay'd  us, 
For  our  mite  was  wearing  scant, 

And,  unless  that  dame  would  aid  us, 
There  was  none  to  aid  our  want. 


BALLADS  AND  ROMANCES  16; 

"  So  I  told  her,  weeping  bitterly, 

What  all  our  woes  had  been  ; 
And,  though  she  was  a  stern  ladie, 

The  tears  stood  in  her  een. 

"And  she  housed  us  both,  when,  cheerfully,      . 

My  child  to  her  had  sworn, 
That  even  if  made  a  widow,  she 

Would  never  wed  Kinghorn.  "- 

Here  paused  the  nurse,  and  then  began 

The  abbot,  standing  by  : — 
' '  Three  months  ago  a  wounded  man 

To  our  abbey  came  to  die. 

"  He  heard  me  long,  with  ghastly  eyes 

And  hand  obdurate  clench'd, 
Speak  of  the  worm  that  never  dies, 

And  the  fire  that  is  not  quench'd. 

"  At  last  by  what  this  scroll  attests 

He  left  atonement  brief, 
For  years  of  anguish  to  the  breasts 

His  guilt  had  wrung  with  grief. 

"  '  There  lived,'  he  said,  '  a  fair  young  dame 

Beneath  my  mother's  roof; 
I  loved  her,  but  against  my  flame 

Her  purity  was  proof. 

"'I  feign'd  repentance,  friendship  pure  ; 

That  mood  she  did  not  check, 
But  let  her  husband's  miniature 

Be  copied  from  her  neck, 

"  '  As  means  to  search  him  ;  my  deceit 
Took  care  to  him  was  borne 


166  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Nought  but  his  picture's  counterfeit, 
And  Jane's  reported  scorn. 

' ' '  The  treachery  took  :  she  waited  wild  ; 

My  slave  came  back  and  lied 
•       Whate'er  I  wish'd  ;  she  clasp'd  her  child, 
And  swoon'd,  and  all  but  died. 

"  '  I  felt  her  tears  for  years  and  years 

Quench  not  my  flame,  but  stir  ; 
The  very  hate  I  bore  her  mate 

Increased  my  love  for  her. 

"  '  Fame  told  us  of  his  glory,  while 

Joy  flush'd  the  face  of  Jane  ; 
And  while  she  bless'd  his  name,  her  smile 

Struck  fire  into  my  brain. 

"  '  No  fears  could  damp  ;  I  reach'd  the  camp, 

Sought  out  its  champion  ; 
And  if  my  broad-sword  fail'd  at  last, 

'Twas  long  and  well  laid  on. 

'"This  wound's  my  meed,  my  name's  Kinghorn, 

My  foe's  the  Ritter  Bann.' — 
The  wafer  to  his  lips  was  borne, 

And  we  shrived  the  dying  man. 

"  He  died  not  till  you  went  to  fight 

The  Turks  at  Warradein  ; 
But  I  see  my  tale  has  changed  you  pale."- 

The  abbot  went  for  wine  ; 

And  brought  a  little  page  who  pour'd 

It  out,  and  knelt  and  smiled  ; — 
The  stunn'd  knight  saw  himself  restored 

To  childhood  in  his  child  ; 


BALLADS  AND  ROMANCES  167 

And  stoop'd  and  caught  him  to  his  breast, 

Laugh'd  loud  and  wept  anon, 
And  with  a  shower  of  kisses  press'd 

The  darling  little  one. 

"And  where  went  Jane?"— "To  a  nunnery,  Sir — 

Look  not  again  so  pale — 
Kinghorn's  old  dame  grew  harsh  to  her."- 

"  And  has  she  ta'en  the  veil  ?  "— 

"Sit  down,  Sir,"  said  the  priest,  "  I  bar 

Rash  words. " — They  sat  all  three, 
And  the  boy  play'd  with  the  knight's  broad  star 

As  he  kept  him  on  his  knee. 

"  Think  ere  you  ask  her  dwelling-place," 

The  abbot  further  said  ; 
"  Time  draws  a  veil  o'er  beauty's  face 

More  deep  than  cloister's  shade. 

"  Grief  may  have  made  her  what  you  can 

Scarce  love  perhaps  for  life. " 
"  Hush,  abbot,"  cried  the  Ritter  Bann, 

"  Or  tell  me  where's  my  wife." 

The  priest  undid  two  doors  that  hid 

The  inn's  adjacent  room, 
And  there  a  lovely  woman  stood, 

Tears  bathed  her  beauty's  bloom. 

One  moment  may  with  bliss  repay 

Unnumber'd  hours  of  pain, 
Such  was  the  throb  and  mutual  sob 

Of  the  knight  embracing  Jane. 

1824. 


168  POEMS,   1809-1836 

THE  BRAVE  ROLAND 

THE  brave  Roland  ! — the  brave  Roland  I—- 
False tidings  reach'd  the  Rhenish  strand 

That  he  had  fallen  in  fight ; 
And  thy  faithful  bosom  swoon'd  with  pain, 
O  loveliest  maiden  of  Allemayne  ! 

For  the  loss  of  thine  own  true  knight. 

But  why  so  rash  has  she  ta'en  the  veil, 
In  yon  Nonnenwerder's  cloisters  pale  ? 

For  her  vow  had  scarce  been  sworn, 
And  the  fatal  mantle  o'er  her  flung, 
When  the  Drachenfels  to  a  trumpet  rung — 

'Twas  her  own  dear  warrior's  horn  ! 

Woe  !  woe  !  each  heart  shall  bleed — shall  break 
She  would  have  hung  upon  his  neck, 

Had  he  come  but  yester-even  ; 
And  he  had  clasp'd  those  peerless  charms 
That  shall  never,  never  fill  his  arms, 

Or  meet  him  but  in  Heaven. 

Yet  Roland  the  brave — Roland  the  true — 
He  could  not  bid  that  spot  adieu  ; 

It  was  dear  still  'midst  his  woes, 
For  he  loved  to  breathe  the  neighbouring  air, 
And  to  think  she  bless'd  him  in  her  prayer, 

When  the  Halleluiah  rose. 

There's  yet  one  window  of  that  pile, 
Which  he  built  above  the  Nuns'  green  isle  ; 

Thence  sad  and  oft  look'd  he 
(When  the  chant  and  organ  sounded  slow) 
On  the  mansion  of  his  love  below, 

For  herself  he  might  not  see. 


BALLADS  AND  ROMANCES  169 

She  died  ! — He  sought  the  battle-plain  ! 
Her  image  fill'd  his  dying  brain, 

When  he  fell  and  wish'd  to  fall : 
And  her  name  was  in  his  latest  sigh, 
When  Roland,  the  flower  of  chivalry, 

Expired  at  Roncevall. 

1820. 


THE  SPECTRE  BOAT 

A    BALLAD 

LIGHT   rued   false   Ferdinand   to  leave  a   lovely  maid 

forlorn, 
Who   broke  her   heart  and  died  to  hide   her   blushing 

cheek  from  scorn. 
One  night  he  dreamt  he  woo'd  her  in  their  wonted  bower 

of  love, 
Where  the  flowers  sprang  thick  around  them,  and  the 

birds  sang  sweet  above. 

But  the  scene  was  swiftly  changed  into  a  churchyard's 

dismal  view, 
And  her  lips  grew  black  beneath  his  kiss,  from  love's 

delicious  hue. 
What  more  he  dreamt,  he  told  to  none  ;  but  shuddering, 

pale,  and  dumb, 
Look'd  out  upon  the  waves,  like  one  that  knew  his  hour 

was  come. 

'Twas  now  the  dead  watch  of  the  night — the  helm  was 

lash'd  a-lee, 
And  the  ship  rode  where  Mount  /Etna  lights  the  deep 

Levantine  sea ; 


170  POEMS,   1809-1836 

When  beneath  its  glare  a  boat  came,  row'cl  by  a  woman 

in  her  shroud, 
Who,  with  eyes  that  made  our  blood  run  cold,  stood  up 

and  spoke  aloud  : — 

"  Come,  Traitor,  down,  for  whom  my  ghost  still  wanders 

unforgiven  ! 
Come   down,  false    Ferdinand,  for  whom    I    broke   my 

peace  with  heaven  !  " — 
It  was  vain  to  hold  the  victim,  for  he  plunged  to  meet 

her  call, 
Like  the  bird  that   shrieks   and    flutters  in   the  gazing 

serpent's  thrall. 

You  may  guess  the  boldest  mariner  shrunk  daunted  from 

the  sight, 
For  the  Spectre  and  her  winding-sheet  shone  blue  with 

hideous  light ; 
Like  a  fiery  wheel   the  boat  spun  with  the  waving  of 

her  hand, 
And  round  they  went,  and  down  they  went,  as  the  cock 

crew  from  the  land. 

1822. 


TRANSLATIONS 


TRANSLATIONS 
MARTIAL  ELEGY 

FROM    THE    GREEK    OF   TYRTVEUS 

How  glorious  fall  the  valiant,  sword  in  hand, 
In  front  of  battle  for  their  native  land  ! 
But  oh  !  what  ills  await  the  wretch  that  yields, 
A  recreant  outcast  from  his  country's  fields  ! 
The  mother  whom  he  loves  shall  quit  her  home, 
An  aged  father  at  his  side  shall  roam  ; 
His  little  ones  shall  weeping  with  him  go, 
And  a  young  wife  participate  his  woe  ; 
While  scorn'd  and  scowl'd  upon  by  every  face, 
They  pine  for  food,  and  beg  from  place  to  place. 

Stain  of  his  breed  !  dishonouring  manhood's  form, 
All  ills  shall  cleave  to  him  : — Affliction's  storm 
Shall  blind  him  wandering  in  the  vale  of  years, 
Till,  lost  to  all  but  ignominious  fears, 
lie  shall  not  blush  to  leave  a  recreant's  name, 
And  children,  like  himself,  inured  to  shame. 

But  we  will  combat  for  our  fathers'  land, 
And  we  will  drain  the  life-blood  where  we  stand, 
To  save  our  children  : — fight  ye  side  by  side, 
And  serried  close,  ye  men  of  youthful  pride, 
Disdaining  fear,  and  deeming  light  the  cost 
Of  life  itself  in  glorious  battle  lost. 

173 


174  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Leave  not  our  sires  to  stem  the  unequal  fight, 
Whose  limbs  are  nerved  no  more  with  buoyant  might 
Nor,  lagging  backward,  let  the  younger  breast 
Permit  the  man  of  age  (a  sight  unbless'd) 
To  welter  in  the  combat's  foremost  thrust, 
His  hoary  head  dishevell'd  in  the  dust, 
"And  venerable  bosom  bleeding  bare. 

But  youth's  fair  form,  though  fallen,  is  ever  fair. 
And  beautiful  in  death  the  boy  appears, 
The  hero  boy,  that  dies  in  blooming  years  : 
In  man's  regret  he  lives,  and  woman's  tears, 
.  More  sacred  than  in  life,  and  lovelier  far, 
For  having  perish 'd  in  the  front  of  war. 

1822. 


SONG  OF  HYBRIAS  THE  CRETAN 

MY  wealth's  a  burly  spear  and  brand, 
And  a  right  good  shield  of  hides  untann'd, 

Which  on  my  arm  I  buckle  : 
With  these  I  plough,  I  reap,  I  sow, 
With  these  I  make  the  sweet  vintage  flow, 

And  all  around  me  truckle. 

But  your  wights  that  take  no  pride  to  wield 
A  massy  spear  and  well-made  shield, 

Nor  joy  to  draw  the  sword  : 
Oh,  I  bring  those  heartless,  hapless  drones 
Down  in  a  trice  on  their  marrow-bones, 

To  call  me  King  and  Lord. 

1823. 


TRANSLATIONS  175 

FRAGMENT 

FROM   THE   GREEK   OF  ALCMAN 

THE  mountain  summits  sleep  :  glens,  cliffs,  and  caves 
Are  silent — all  the  black  earth's  reptile  brood — 
The  bees — the  wild  beasts  of  the  mountain  wood  : 

In  depths  beneath  the  dark  red  ocean's  waves 

Its  monsters  rest,  whilst  wrapt  in  bower  and  spray 
Each  bird  is  hush'd  that  stretch'd  its  pinions  to  the 
day. 

1822. 


IN     BLANK    VERSE 


LINES 

ON   THE  VIEW   FROM   ST.    LEONARDS 

HAIL  to  thy  face  and  odours,  glorious  Sea  ! 
'Twere  thanklessness  in  me  to  bless  thee  not, 
Great  beauteous  Being  !  in  whose  breath  and  smile 
My  heart  beats  calmer,  and  my  very  mind 
Inhales  salubrious  thoughts.     How  welcomer 
Thy  murmurs  than  the  murmurs  of  the  world  ! 
Though  like  the  world  thou  fluctuatest,  thy  din 
To  me  is  peace,  thy  restlessness  repose. 
Ev'n  gladly  I  exchange  yon  spring-green  lanes 
With  all  the  darling  field-flowers  in  their  prime, 
And  gardens  haunted  by  the  nightingale's 
Long  trills  and  gushing  ecstasies  of  song, 
For  these  wild  headlands,  and  the  sea-mew's  clang.  - 

With  thee  beneath  my  windows,  pleasant  Sea, 

I  long  not  to  o'erlook  earth's  fairest  glades 

And  green  savannahs — Earth  has  not  a  plain 

So  boundless  or  so  beautiful  as  thine  ; 

The  eagle's  vision  cannot  take  it  in  : 

The  lightning's  wing,  too  weak  to  sweep  its  space, 

Sinks  half-way  o'er  it  like  a  wearied  bird  : 

It  is  the  mirror  of  the  stars,  where  all 

Their  hosts  within  the  concave  firmament, 

179 


i8o  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Gay  marching  to  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Can  see  themselves  at  once. 

Nor  on  the  stage 

Of  rural  landscape  are  there  lights  and  shades 
Of  more  harmonious  dance  and  play  than  thine. 
How  vividly,  this  moment,  brightens  forth, 
Between  grey  parallel  and  leaden  breadths, 
A  belt  of  hues  that  stripes  thee  many  a  league, 
Flush'd  like  the  rainbow,  or  the  ringdove's  neck, 
And  giving  to  the  glancing  sea-bird's  wing 
The  semblance  of  a  meteor. 

Mighty  Sea  ! 

Cameleon-like  thou  changes!,  but  there's  love 
In  all  thy  change,  and  constant  sympathy 
With  yonder  Sky — thy  Mistress  ;  from  her  brow 
Thou  tak'st  thy  moods  and  wear'st  her  colours  on 
Thy  faithful  bosom  ;  morning's  milky  white, 
Noon's  sapphire,  or  the  saffron  glow  of  eve ; 
And  all  thy  balmier  hours,  fair  Element, 
Have  such  divine  complexion — crisped  smiles, 
Luxuriant  heavings,  and  sweet  whisperings, 
That  little  is  the  wonder  Love's  own  Queen 
From  thee  of  old  was  fabled  to  have  sprung — 
Creation's  common  !  which  no  human  power 
Can  parcel  or  inclose  ;  the  lordliest  floods 
And  cataracts  that  the  tiny  hands  of  man 
Can  tame,  conduct,  or  bound,  are  drops  of  dew 
To  thee  that  couldst  subdue  the  Earth  itself, 
And  brook'st  commandment  from  the  heavens  alone 
For  marshalling  thy  waves — 

Yet,  potent  Sea  ! 

How  placidly  thy  moist  lips  speak  ev'n  now 
Along  yon  sparkling  shingles.     Who  can  be 
So  fanciless  as  to  feel  no  gratitude 
That  power  and  grandeur  can  be  so  serene, 


IN  BLANK  VERSE  181 

Soothing  the  home-bound  navy's  peaceful  way, 
And  rocking  ev'n  the  fisher's  little  bark 
As  gently  as  a  mother  rocks  her  child  ?  — 

The  inhabitants  of  other  worlds  behold 

Our  orb  more  lucid  for  thy  spacious  share 

On  earth's  rotundity  ;  and  is  he  not 

A  blind  worm  in  the  dust,  great  Deep,  the  man 

Who  sees  not  or  who  seeing  has  no  joy 

In  thy  magnificence  ?     What  though  thou  art 

Unconscious  and  material,  thou  canst  reach 

The  inmost  immaterial  mind's  recess, 

And  with  thy  tints  and  motion  stir  its  chords 

To  music,  like  the  light  on  Memnon's  lyre  ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  Universe  in  thee 

Is  visible  ;  thou  hast  in  thee  the  life — 

The  eternal,  graceful,  and  majestic  life 

Of  nature,  and  the  natural  human  heart 

Is  therefore  bound  to  thee  with  holy  love. 

Earth  has  her  gorgeous  towns  ;  the  earth-circling  sea 

Has  spires  and  mansions  more  amusive  still — 

Men's  volant  homes  that  measure  liquid  space 

On  wheel  or  wing.     The  chariot  of  the  land 

With  pain'd  and  panting  steeds  and  clouds  of  dust 

Has  no  sight-gladdening  motion  like  these  fair 

Careerers  with  the  foam  beneath  their  bows, 

Whose  streaming  ensigns  charm  the  waves  by  day, 

Whose  carols  and  whose  watch-bells  cheer  the  night, 

Moor'd  as  they  cast  the  shadows  of  their  masts 

In  long  array,  or  hither  flit  and  yond 

Mysteriously  with  slow  and  crossing  lights, 

Like  spirits  on  the  darkness  of  the  deep. 

There  is  a  magnet-like  attraction  in 
These  waters  to  the  imaginative  power 


i82  POEMS,   1809-1836 

That  links  the  viewless  with  the  visible, 

And  pictures  things  unseen.     To  realms  beyond 

Yon  highway  of  the  world  my  fancy  flies, 

When  by  her  tall  and  triple  mast  we  know 

Some  noble  voyager  that  has  to  woo 

The  trade-winds  and  to  stem  the  ecliptic  surge. 

The  coral  groves — the  shores  of  conch  and  pearl, 

Where  she  will  cast  her  anchor  and  reflect 

Her  cabin-window  lights  on  warmer  waves, 

And  under  planets  brighter  than  our  own  : 

The  nights  of  palmy  isles,  that  she  will  see 

Lit  boundless  by  the  fire-fly — all  the  smells 

Of  tropic  fruits  that  will  regale  her — all 

The  pomp  of  nature,  and  the  inspiriting 

Varieties  of  life  she  has  to  greet, 

Come  swarming  o'er  the  meditative  mind. 

True,  to  the  dream  of  Fancy,  Ocean  has 

His  darker  tints  ;  but  where's  the  element 

That  chequers  not  its  usefulness  to  man 

With  casual  terror  ?    Scathes  not  Earth  sometimes 

Her  children  with  Tartarean  fires,  or  shakes 

Their  shrieking  cities,  and,  with  one  last  clang 

Of  bells  for  their  own  ruin,  strews  them  flat 

As  riddled  ashes — silent  as  the  grave  ? 

Walks  not  Contagion  on  the  Air  itself? 

I  should — old  Ocean's  Saturnalian  days 

And  roaring  nights  of  revelry  and  sport 

With  wreck  and  human  woe — be  loth  to  sing  ; 

For  they  are  few,  and  all  their  ills  weigh  light 

Against  his  sacred  usefulness,  that  bids 

Our  pensile  globe  revolve  in  purer  air. 

Here  Morn  and  Eve  with  blushing  thanks  receive 

Their  freshening  dews,  gay  fluttering  breezes  cool 

Their  wings  to  fan  the  brow  of  fever'd  climes, 


IN  BLANK  VERSE  183 

And  here  the  Spring  dips  down  her  emerald  um 
For  showers  to  glad  the  earth. 

Old  Ocean  was 

Infinity  of  ages  ere  we  breathed 
Existence — and  he  will  be  beautiful 
When  all  the  living  world  that  sees  him  now 
Shall  roll  unconscious  dust  around  the  sun. 
Quelling  from  age  to  age  the  vital  throb 
In  human  hearts,  Death  shall  not  subjugate 
The  pulse  that  swells  in  his  stupendous  breast, 
Or  interdict  his  minstrelsy  to  sound 
In  thundering  concert  with  the  quiring  winds  ; 
But  long  as  Man  to  parent  Nature  owns 
Instinctive  homage,  and  in  times  beyond 
The  power  of  thought  to  reach,  bard  after  bard 
Shall  sing  thy  glory,  BEATIFIC  SEA. 

1831. 


WRITTEN   AT  ORAN' 

FALL'H  as  he  is,  this  king  of  birds  still  seems 

Like  royalty  in  ruins.     Though  his  eyes 

Are  shut,  that  look  undazzled  on  the  sun, 

He  was  the  sultan  of  the  sky,  and  earth 

Paid  tribute  to  his  eyry.      It  was  perch'd 

Higher  than  human  conqueror  ever  built 

His  banner'd  fort.     Where  Atlas'  top  looks  o'er 

Zahara's  desert  to  the  equator's  line  : 

From  thence  the  winged  despot  mark'd  his  prey, 

Above  th'  encampments  of  the  Bedouins,  ere 

Their  watchfires  were  extinct,  or  camels  knelt 


1 84  POEMS,   1809-1836 

To  take  their  loads,  or  horsemen  scour'd  the  plain, 
And  there  he  dried  his  feathers  in  the  dawn, 
Whilst  yet  th'  unwaken'd  world  was  dark  below. 

There's  such  a  charm  in  natural  strength  and  power, 

That  human  fancy  has  for  ever  paid 

Poetic  homage  to  the  bird  of  Jove. 

Hence,  'neath  his  image,  Rome  array 'd  her  turms 

And  cohorts  for  the  conquest  of  the  world. 

And  figuring  his  flight,  the  mind  is  fill'd 

With  thoughts  that  mock  the  pride  of  wingless  man. 

True  the  carr'd  aeronaut  can  mount  as  high ; 

But  what's  the  triumph  of  his  volant  art  ? 

A  rash  intrusion  on  the  realms  of  air. 

His  helmless  vehicle,  a  silken  toy, 

A  bubble  bursting  in  the  thunder-cloud  ; 

His  course  has  no  volition,  and  he  drifts 

The  passive  plaything  of  the  winds.     Not  such 

Was  this  proud  bird  :  he  clove  the  adverse  storm, 

And  cufFd  it  with  his  wings.     He  stopp'd  his  flight 

As  easily  as  the  Arab  reins  his  steed, 

And  stood  at  pleasure  'neath  Heaven's  zenith,  like 

A  lamp  suspended  from  its  azure  dome, 

Whilst  underneath  him  the  world's  mountains  lay 

Like  molehills,  and  her  streams  like  lucid  threads. 

Then  downward,  faster  than  a  falling  star, 

He  near'd  the  earth,  until  his  shape  distinct 

Was  blackly  shadow'd  on  the  sunny  ground  ; 

And  deeper  terror  hush'd  the  wilderness, 

To  hear  his  nearer  whoop.     Then,  up  again 

He  soar'd  and  wheel'd.     There  was  an  air  of  scorn 

In  all  his  movements,  whether  he  threw  round 

His  crested  head  to  look  behind  him  ;  or 

Lay  vertical  and  sportively  display'd 

The  inside  whiteness  of  his  wing  declined, 


IN  BLANK  VERSE  185 

In  gyres  and  undulations  full  of  grace, 
An  object  beautifying  Heaven  itself. 

He — reckless  who  was  victor,  and  above 

The  hearing  of  their  guns — saw  fleets  engaged 

In  flaming  combat.     It  was  nought  to  him 

What  carnage,  Moor  or  Christian,  strew'd  their  decks. 

But  if  his  intellect  had  match'd  his  wings, 

Methinks  he  would  have  scorn'd  man's  vaunted  power 

To  plough  the  deep  ;  his  pinions  bore  him  down 

To  Algiers  the  warlike,  or  the  coral  groves, 

That  blush  beneath  the  green  of  Bona's  waves  ; 

And  traversed  in  an  hour  a  wider  space 

Than  yonder  gallant  ship,  with  all  her  sails 

Wooing  the  winds,  can  cross  from  morn  till  eve. 

His  bright  eyes  were  his  compass,  earth  his  chart, 

His  talons  anchor'd  on  the  stormiest  cliff, 

And  on  the  very  light-house  rock  he  perch'd, 

When  winds  churn'd  white  the  waves. 

The  earthquake's  self 
Disturb'd  not  him  that  memorable  day, 
When,  o'er  yon  table-land,  where  Spain  had  built 
Cathedrals,  cannon'd  forts,  and  palaces, 
A  palsy-stroke  of  Nature  shook  Oran, 
Turning  her  city  to  a  sepulchre, 
And  strewing  into  rubbish  all  her  homes  ; 
Amidst  whose  traceable  foundations  now, 
Of  streets  and  squares,  the  hyaena  hides  himself. 
That  hour  beheld  him  fly  as  careless  o'er 
The  stifled  shrieks  of  thousands  buried  quick, 
As  lately  when  he  pounced  the  speckled  snake, 
Coil'd  in  yon  mallows  and  wide  nettle  fields 
That  mantle  o'er  the  dead  old  Spanish  town. 

Strange  is  the  imagination's  dread  delight 

In  objects  link'd  with  danger,  death,  and  pain  ! 


186  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Fresh  from  the  luxuries  of  polish'd  life, 

The  echo  of  these  wilds  enchanted  me  ; 

And  my  heart  beat  with  joy  when  first  I  heard 

A  lion's  roar  come  down  the  Lybian  wind, 

Across  yon  long,  wide,  lonely  inland  lake, 

Where  boat  ne'er  sails  from  homeless  shore  to  shore. 

And  yet  Numidia's  landscape  has  its  spots 

Of  pastoral  pleasantness — though  far  between, 

The  village  planted  near  the  Maraboot's 

Round  roof  has  aye  its  feathery  palm  trees 

Pair'd,  for  in  solitude  they  bear  no  fruits. 

Here  nature's  hues  all  harmonise — fields  white 

With  alasum,  or  blue  with  bugloss — banks 

Of  glossy  fennel,  blent  with  tulips  wild, 

And  sunflowers,  like  a  garment  prankt  with  gold  ; 

Acres  and  miles  of  opal  asphodel, 

Where  sports  and  couches  the  black-eyed  gazelle. 

Here,  too,  the  air's  harmonious — deep-toned  doves 

Coo  to  the  fife-like  carol  of  the  lark ; 

And.  when  they  cease,  the  holy  nightingale 

Winds  up  his  long,  long  shakes  of  ecstasy, 

With  notes  that  seem  but  the  protracted  sounds 

Of  glassy  runnels  bubbling  over  rocks 

1835- 


IN    THE    CAUSE    OF 
FREEDOM 


THE  DEATH-BOAT  OF  HELIGOLAND 

CAN  restlessness  reach  the  cold  sepulchred  head  ? — 
Ay,  the  quick  have  their  sleep-walkers,  so  have  the  dead. 
There  are  brains,  though  they  moulder,  that  dream  in 

the  tomb, 

And  that  maddening  forehear  the  last  trumpet  of  doom, 
Till  their  corses  start  sheeted  to  revel  on  earth, 
Making  horror  more  deep  by  the  semblance  of  mirth  : 
By  the  glare  of  new-lighted  volcanoes  they  dance, 
Or  at  mid-sea  appal  the  chill'd  mariner's  glance. 
Such,  I  wot,  was  the  band  of  cadaverous  smile 
Seen  ploughing  the  night-surge  of  Heligo's  isle. 

The  foam  of  the  Baltic  had  sparkled  like  fire, 
And  the  red  moon  look'd  down  with  an  aspect  of  ire ; 
But  her  beams  on  a  sudden  grew  sick -like  and  grey, 
And  the  mews  that  had  slept  clang'd  and  shriek'd  far 

away — 

And  the  buoys  and  the  beacons  extinguish'd  their  light, 
As  the  boat  of  the  stony-eyed  dead  came  in  sight, 
High  bounding  from  billow  to  billow  ;  each  form 
Had  its  shroud  like  a  plaid  flying  loose  to  the  storm  ; 
With  an  oar  in  each  pulseless  and  icy-cold  hand, 
Fast  they  plough'd  by  the  lee-shore  of  Heligoland, 
Such  breakers  as  boat  of  the  living  ne'er  cross'd  ; 
Now  surf-sunk  for  minutes  again  they  uptoss'd, 
And  with  livid  lips  shouted  reply  o'er  the  flood 
To  the  challenging  watchman,  that  curdled  his  blood — 
189 


190  POEMS,   1809-1836 

"We  are  dead — we  are  bound  from  our  graves  in  the 

west, 

First  to  Ilecla,  and  then  to — "  Unmeet  was  the  rest 
For  man's  ear.     The  old  abbey  bell  thunder'd  its  clang, 
And  their  eyes  gleam'd  with  phosphorous  light  as  it  rang : 
Ere  they  vanish'd,  they  stopp'd,  and  gazed  silently  grim, 
Till  the  eye  could  define  them,  garb,  feature,  and  limb. 

Now  who  were  those  roamers  ? — of  gallows  or  wheel 
Bore  they  marks,  or  the  mangling  anatomist's  steel  ? 
No,  by  magistrates'  chains  'mid  their  grave-clothes  you 

saw 

They  were  felons  too  proud  to  have  perish'd  by  law : 
But  a  ribbon  that  hung  where  a  rope  should  have  been, 
'Twas  the  badge  of  their  faction,  its  hue  was  not  green, 
Show'd  them  men  who  had  trampled  and  tortured  and 

driven 

To  rebellion  the  fairest  Isle  breath'd  on  by  Heaven, — 
Men  whose  heirs  would  yet  finish  the  tyrannous  task, 
If  the  Truth  and  the  Time  had  not  dragg'd  off  their  mask. 
They  parted — but  not  till  the  sight  might  discern 
A  scutcheon  distinct  at  their  pinnace's  stern, 
Where  letters  emblazon'd  in  blood-colour'd  flame, 
Named  their  faction — I  blot  not  my  page  with  its  name. 

1828. 


STANZAS 

TO  THE    MEMORY   OF  THE  SPANISH    PATRIOTS 

LATEST   KILLED   IN    RESISTING   THE    REGENCY 

AND   THE   DUKE   OF   ANGOULEMR. 

BRAVE  men  who  at  the  Trocadero  fell — 

Beside  your  cannons  conquer'd  not,  though  slain, 


IN  THE  CAUSE  OF  FREEDOM  191 

There  is  a  victory  in  dying  well 
For  Freedom, — and  ye  have  not  died  in  vain  ; 
For,  come  what  may,  there  shall  be  hearts  in  Spain 
To  honour,  ay  embrace  your  martyr'd  lot, 
Cursing  the  Bigot's  and  the  Bourbon's  chain, 
And  looking  on  your  graves,  though  trophied  not, 
As  holier  hallow'd  ground  than  priests  could  make  the 
spot  ! 

What  though  your  cause  be  baffled — freemen  cast 
In  dungeons — dragg'd  to  death,  or  forced  to  flee? 
Hope  is  not  wither'd  in  affliction's  blast — 
The  patriot's  blood's  the  seed  of  Freedom's  tree  ; 
And  short  your  orgies  of  revenge  shall  be, 
Cowl'd  Demons  of  the  Inquisitorial  cell ! 
Earth  shudders  at  your  victory, — for  ye 
Are  worse  than  common  fiends  from  Heaven  that  fell, 
The  baser,  ranker  sprung,  Autochthones  of  Hell ! 

Go  to  your  bloody  rites  again— bring  back 
The  hall  of  horrors  and  the  assessor's  pen, 
Recording  answers  shriek'd  upon  the  rack  ; 
Smile  o'er  the  gaspings  of  spine-broken  men  ; — 
Preach,  perpetrate  damnation  in  your  den  ; —  . 
Then  let  your  altars,  ye  blasphemers  !  peal 
With  thanks  to  Heaven,  that  let  you  loose  again, 
To  practise  deeds  with  torturing  fire  and  steel 
No  eye  may  search — no  tongue  may  challenge  or  reveal ! 

Yet  laugh  not  in  your  carnival  of  crime 
Too  proudly,  ye  oppressors  ! — Spain  was  free, 
Her  soil  has  felt  the  foot-prints,  and  her  clime 
Been  winnow'd  by  the  wings  of  Liberty  ; 
And  these  even  parting  scatter  as  they  flee 
Thoughts — influences,  to  live  in  hearts  unborn, 


192  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Opinions  that  shall  wrench  the  prison-key 
From  Persecution — show  her  mask  off-torn, 
And  tramp  her  bloated  head  beneath  the  foot  of  Scorn. 

Glory  to  them  that  die  in  this  great  cause  ! 
Kings,  Bigots,  can  inflict  no  brand  of  shame, 
Or  shape  of  death,  to  shroud  them  from  applause  : — 
No  ! — manglers  of  the  martyr's  earthly  frame  ! 
Your  hangmen  fingers  cannot  touch  his  fame. 
Still  in  your  prostrate  land  there  shall  be  some 
Proud  hearts,  the  shrines  of  Freedom's  vestal  flame. 
Long  trains  of  ill  may  pass  unheeded,  dumb, 
But  vengeance  is  behind,  and  justice  is  to  come. 

1823. 


STANZAS 

ON   THE   BATTLE   OF   NAVARINO 

HEARTS  of  oak  that  have  bravely  deliver'd  the  brave 
And  uplifted  old  Greece  from  the  brink  of  the  grave, 
'Twas  the  helpless  to  help,  and  the  hopeless  to  save, 

That  your  thunderbolts  swept  o'er  the  brine  ; 
And  as  long  as  yon  sun  shall  look  down  on  the  wave 

The  light  of  your  glory  shall  shine. 

For  the  guerdon  ye  sought  with  your  bloodshed  and  toil, 
Was  it  slaves,  or  dominion,  or  rapine,  or  spoil  ? 
No  !  your  lofty  emprise  was  to  fetter  and  foil 

The  uprooter  of  Greece's  domain  ! 
When  he  tore  the  last  remnant  of  food  from  her  soil. 

Till  her  famish'd  sank  pale  as  the  slain  ! 

Yet,  Navarin's  heroes  !  does  Christendom  breed 

The  base  hearts  that  will  question  the  fame  of  your  deed  ? 


IN  THE  CAUSE  OF  FREEDOM  193 

Are  they  men  ? — let  ineffable  scorn  be  their  meed, 

And  oblivion  shadow  their  graves  ! — 
Are  they  women  ? — To  Turkish  serails  let  them  speed  ; 

And  be  mothers  of  Mussulman  slaves. 

Abettors  of  massacre  !  dare  ye  deplore 

That  the  death-shriek  is  silenced  on  Hellas's  shore  ? 

That  the  mother  aghast  sees  her  offspring  no  more 

By  the  hand  of  Infanticide  grasp'd  ? 
And  that  stretch'd  on  yon  billows  distain'd  by  their  gore 

Missolonghi's  assassins  have  gasp'd  ? 

Prouder  scene  never  hallow'd  war's  pomp  to  the  mind, 
Than   when    Christendom's   pennons  woo'd    social   the 

wind, 
And  the  flower  of  her  brave  for  the  combat  combined, 

Their  watch-word  humanity's  vow  ; 
Not  a  sea-boy  that  fought  in  that  cause,  but  mankind 

Owes  a  garland  to  honour  his  brow  ! 

Nor  grudge,  by  our  side,  that  to  conquer  or  fall, 
Came  the  hardy  rude  Russ,  and  the  high-mettled  Gaul  ; 
For  whose  was  the  genius,  that  plann'd  at  its  call, 

Where  the  whirlwind  of  battle  should  roll  ? 
All  were  brave  !  but  the  star  of  success  over  all 

Was  the  light  of  our  Codrington's  soul. 

That  star  of  thy  day-spring,  regenerate  Greek  ! 
Dimm'd  the  Saracen's  moon,  and  struck  pallid  his  cheek : 
In  its  fast  flushing  morning  thy  Muses  shall  speak 

When  their  lore  and  their  lutes  they  reclaim  : 
And  the  first  of  their  songs  from  Parnassus's  peak 

Shall  be  "  Glory  to  Codrington's  name!" 

1828. 


194  POEMS,   1809-1836 


ODE  TO  THE  GERMANS 

THE  spirit  of  Britannia 

Invokes,  across  the  main, 
Her  sister  Allemannia 

To  burst  the  Tyrant's  chain  : 
By  our  kindred  blood,  she  cries, 
Rise,  Allemannians,  rise, 

And  hallow'd  thrice  the  band 
Of  our  kindred  hearts  shall  be, 

When  your  land  shall  be  the  land 

Of  the  free— of  the  free  ! 

With  Freedom's  lion -banner 

Britannia  rules  the  waves  ; 
Whilst  your  BROAD  STONE  OF  HONOUR 

Is  still  the  camp  of  slaves. 
For  shame,  for  glory's  sake, 
Wake,  Allemannians,  wake, 

And  thy  tyrants  now  that  whelm 
Half  the  world  shall  quail  and  flee, 

When  your  realm  shall  be  the  realm 
Of  the  free — of  the  free  ! 

MARS  owes  to  you  his  thunder 

That  shakes  the  battle-field, 
Yet  to  break  your  bonds  asunder 

No  martial  bolt  has  peal'd. 
Shall  the  laurell'd  land  of  art 
Wear  shackles  on  her  heart  ? 

No  !  the  clock  ye  framed  to  tell 
By  its  sound,  the  march  of  time  ; 

Let  it  clang  oppression's  knell 

O'er  your  clime — o'er  your  clime 


IN  THE  CAUSE  OF  FREEDOM  195 

The  press's  magic  letters, 

That  blessing  ye  brought  forth, — 
Behold  !  it  lies  in  fetters 

On  the  soil  that  gave  it  birth  : 
But  the  trumpet  must  be  heard, 
And  the  charger  must  be  spurr'd  ; 

For  your  father  Armin's  Sprite 
Calls  clown  from  heaven,  that  ye 

Shall  gird  you  for  the  fight, 

And  be  free  ! — and  be  free  ! 
1831. 


THE  POWER  OF  RUSSIA 

So  all  this  gallant  blood  has  gush'd  in  vain  ! 
And  Poland,  by  the  Northern  Condor's  beak 
And  talons  torn,  lies  prostrated  again. 
0  British  patriots,  that  were  wont  to  speak 
Once  loudly  on  this  theme,  now  hush'd  or  meek  ! 
O  heartless  men  of  Europe — Goth  and  Gaul, 
Cold,  adder-deaf  to  Poland's  dying  shriek ; — 
That  saw  the  world's  last  land  of  heroes  fall — 
The  brand  of  burning  shame  is  on  you  all — all — all  ! 

But  this  is  not  the  drama's  closing  act  ! 
Its  tragic  curtain  must  uprise  anew. 
Nations,  mute  accessories  to  the  fact  ! 
That  Upas-tree  of  power,  whose  fostering  dew 
Was  Polish  blood,  has  yet  to  cast  o'er  you 
The  lengthening  shadow  of  its  head  elate — 
A  deadly  shadow,  darkening  Nature's  hue. 
To  all  that's  hallow'd,  righteous,  pure  and  great, 
Woe  !     woe !     when     they    are     reach'd     by     Russia's 
withering  hate. 


196  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Russia,  that  on  his  throne  of  adamant 
Consults  what  nation's  breast  shall  next  be  gored  : 
He  on  Polonia's  Golgotha  will  plant 
His  standard  fresh  ;  and,  horde  succeeding  horde, 
On  patriot  tomb-stones  he  will  whet  the  sword 
For  more  stupendous  slaughters  of  the  free. 
Then  Europe's  realms,  when  their  best  blood  is  pour'd, 
Shall  miss  thee,  Poland  !  as  they  bend  the  knee, 
All — all  in  grief,  but  none  in  glory,  likening  thee. 

Why  smote  ye  not  the  Giant  whilst  he  reel'd  ? 
O  fair  occasion,  gone  for  ever  by  ! 
To  have  lock'd  his  lances  in  their  northern  field, 
Innocuous  as  the  phantom  chivalry 
That  flames  and  hurtles  from  yon  boreal  sky  ! 
Now  wave  thy  pennon,  Russia,  o'er  the  land 
Once  Poland  r  build  thy  bristling  castles  high  ; 
Dig  dungeons  deep  ;  for  Poland's  wrested  brand 
Is  now  a  weapon  new  to  widen  thy  command — 

An  awful  width  !  Norwegian  woods  shall  build 
His  fleets  ;  the  Swede  his  vassal,  and  the  Dane ; 
The  glebe  of  fifty  kingdoms  shall  be  till'd 
To  feed  his  dazzling,  desolating  train, 
Camp'd  sumless,  'twixt  the  Black  and  Baltic  main  : 
Brute  hosts,  I  own  ;  but  Sparta  could  not  write, 
And  Rome,  half-barbarous,  bound  Achaia's  chain  : 
So  Russia's  spirit,  'midst  Sclavonic  night, 
Burns  with  a  fire  more  dread  than  all  your  polish'd  light. 

But  Russia's  limbs  (so  blinded  statesmen  speak) 
Are  crude,  and  too  colossal  to  cohere. 
O  lamentable  weakness  !  reckoning  weak 
The  stripling  Titan,  strengthening  year  by  year. 
What  implement  lacks  he  for  war's  career, 


IN  THE  CAUSE  OF  FREEDOM  197 

That  grows  on  earth,  or  in  its  floods  and  mines, 
(Eighth  sharer  of  the  inhabitable  sphere,) 
Whom  Persia  bows  to,  China  ill  confines, 
And  India's  homage  waits,  when  Albion's  star  declines  ! 

But  time  will  teach  the  Russ,  ev'n  conquering  War 
Has  handmaid  arts:  ay,  ay,  the  Russ  will  woo 
All  sciences  that  speed  Bellona's  car, 
All  murder's  tactic  arts,  and  win  them  too ; 
But  never  holier  Muses  shall  imbue 
His  breast,  that's  made  of  nature's  basest  clay  : 
The  sabre,  knout,  and  dungeon's  vapour  blue 
His  laws  and  ethics  :  far  from  him  away 
Are  all  the  lovely  Nine,  that  breathe  but  Freedom's  day. 

Say,  ev'n  his  serfs,  half-humanised,  should  learn 
Their  human  rights, — will  Mars  put  out  his  flame 
In  Russian  bosoms  ?  no,  he'll  bid  them  burn 
A  thousand  years  for  nought  but  martial  fame, 
Like  Romans  : — yet  forgive  me,  Roman  name  ! 
Rome  could  impart  what  Russia  never  can ; 
Proud  civic  rights  to  salve  submission's  shame. 
Our  strife  is  coming  ;  but  in  freedom's  van 
The  Polish  eagle's  fall  is  big  with  fate  to  man. 

Proud  bird  of  old  !  Mohammed's  moon  recoil'd 
Before  thy  swoop  :  had  we  been  timely  bold, 
That  swoop,  still  free,  had  stunn'd  the  Russ,  and  foil'd 
Earth's  new  oppressors,  as  it  foil'd  her  old. 
Now  thy  majestic  eyes  are  shut  and  cold  : 
And  colder  still  Polonia's  children  find 
The  sympathetic  hands,  that  we  outhold. 
But,  Poles,  when  we  are  gone,  the  world  will  mind 
Ye  bore  the  brunt  of  fate,  and  bled  for  humankind. 


198  POEMS,   1809-1836 

So  hallowedly  have  ye  fulfill'd  your  part, 
My  pride  repudiates  ev'n  the  sigh  that  blends 
With  Poland's  name — name  written  on  my  heart. 
My  heroes,  my  grief-consecrated  friends  ! 
Your  sorrow,  in  nobility,  transcends 
Your  conqueror's  joy :  his  cheek  may  blush ;  but  shame 
Can  tinge  not  yours,  though  exile's  tear  descends  ; 
Nor  would  ye  change  your  conscience,  cause,  and  name, 
For  his,  with  all  his  wealth,  and  all  his  felon  fame. 

Thee,  Niemciewitz,  whose  song  of  stirring  power 
The  Czar  forbids  to  sound  in  Polish  lands ; 
Thee,  Czartoryski,  in  thy  banish'd  bower, 
The  patricide,  who  in  thy  palace  stands, 
May  envy  ;  proudly  may  Polonia's  bands 
Throw  down  their  swords  at  Europe's  feet  in  scorn, 
Saying — "  Russia  from  the  metal  of  these  brands 
Shall  forge  the  fetters  of  your  sons  unborn  ; 
Our  setting  star  is  your  misfortunes'  rising  morn." 
1831. 


OCCASIONAL    AND 
PERSONAL 


ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  BURNS 

SOUL  of  the  Poet  !  whereso'er 
Reclaim'd  from  earth,  thy  genius  plume 
Her  wings  of  immortality  : 
Suspend  thy  harp  in  happier  sphere, 
And  with  thine  influence  illume 
The  gladness  of  our  jubilee. 

And  fly  like  fiends  from  secret  spell, 
Discord  and  Strife,  at  BURNS'S  name, 
Exorcised  by  his  memory  ; 
For  he  was  chief  of  bards  that  swell 
The  heart  with  songs  of  social  flame, 
And  high  delicious  revelry. 

And  Love's  own  strain  to  him  was  given, 

To  warble  all  its  ecstasies 

With  Pythian  words  unsought,  unwill'd,- — 

Love,  the  surviving  gift  of  Heaven, 

The  choicest  sweet  of  Paradise, 

In  life's  else  bitter  cup  distill'd. 

Who  that  has  melted  o'er  his  lay 
To  Mary's  soul,  in  Heaven  above, 
But  pictured  sees,  in  fancy  strong, 
The  landscape  and  the  livelong  day 
That  smiled  upon  their  mutual  love  ? 
Who  that  has  felt  forgets  the  song  ? 
20 1 


202  POEMS,  1809-1836 

Nor  skill'd  one  flame  alone  to  fan  : 
His  country's  high-soul'd  peasantry 
What  patriot-pride  he  taught ! — how  much 
To  weigh  the  inborn  worth  of  man  ! 
And  rustic  life  and  poverty 
Grow  beautiful  beneath  his  touch. 

Him  in  his  clay-built  cot,  the  Muse 
Entranced,  and  show'd  him  all  the  forms, 
Of  fairy-light  and  wizard  gloom, 
(That  only  gifted  Poet  views,) 
The  Genii  of  the  floods  and  storms, 
And  martial  shades  from  Glory's  tomb. 

On  Bannock-field  what  thoughts  arouse 

The  swain  whom  BURNS'S  song  inspires  ! 

Beat  not  his  Caledonian  veins, 

As  o'er  the  heroic  turf  he  ploughs, 

With  all  the  spirit  of  his  sires, 

And  all  their  scorn  of  death  and  chains  ? 

And  see  the  Scottish  exile,  tann'd 

By  many  a  far  and  foreign  clime, 

Bend  o'er  his  home-born  verse,  and  weep 

In  memory  of  his  native  land, 

With  love  that  scorns  the  lapse  of  time, 

And  ties  that  stretch  beyond  the  deep. 

Encamp'd  by  Indian  rivers  wild, 

The  soldier  resting  on  his  arms, 

In  BURNS'S  carol  sweet  recalls 

The  scenes  that  bless'd  him  when  a  child, 

And  glows  and  gladdens  at  the  charms 

Of  Scotia's  woods  and  waterfalls. 


OCCASIONAL  AND  PERSONAL          203 

O  deem  not,  'midst  this  worldly  strife, 
An  idle  art  the  Poet  brings  : 
Let  high  Philosophy  control, 
And  sages  calm,  the  stream  of  life, 
'Tis  he  refines  its  fountain-springs, 
The  nobler  passions  of  the  soul. 

It  is  the  muse  that  consecrates 
The  native  banner  of  the  brave, 
Unfurling,  at  the  trumpet's  breath, 
Rose,  thistle,  harp  ;  'tis  she  elates 
To  sweep  the  field  or  ride  the  wave, 
A  sunburst  in  the  storm  of  death. 

And  thou,  young  hero,  when  thy  pall 

Is  cross'd  with  mournful  sword  and  plume, 

When  public  grief  begins  to  fade, 

And  only  tears  of  kindred  fall, 

Who  but  the  Bard  shall  dress  thy  tomb, 

And  greet  with  fame  thy  gallant  shade  ! 

Such  was  the  soldier — BURNS,  forgive 

That  sorrows  of  mine  own  intrude 

In  strains  to  thy  great  memory  due. 

In  verse  like  thine,  oh  !  could  he  live, 

The  friend  I  mourn'd — the  brave — the  good — 

Edward  that  died  at  Waterloo  ! 

Farewell,  high  chief  of  Scottish  song  ! 
That  couldst  alternately  impart 
Wisdom  and  rapture  in  thy  page, 
And  brand  each  vice  with  satire  strong  ; 
Whose  lines  are  mottoes  of  the  heart, 
Whose  truths  electrify  the  sage. 


204  POEMS,    1809-1836 

Farewell !  and  ne'er  may  Envy  dare 
To  wring  one  balefiil  poison  drop 
From  the  crush'd  laurels  of  thy  bust : 
But  while  the  lark  sings  sweet  in  air, 
Still  may  the  grateful  pilgrim  stop, 
To  bless  the  spot  that  holds  thy  dust. 

1815. 


VALEDICTORY    STANZAS    TO 
J.   P.   KEMBLE,  ESQ. 

COMPOSED   FOR   A   PUBLIC   MEETING   HELD  JUNE  1817 

PRIDE  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Whose  image  brought  th'  heroic  age 

Revived  to  Fancy's  view. 
Like  fields  refresh'd  with  dewy  light 

When  the  sun  smiles  his  last, 
Thy  parting  presence  makes  more  bright 

Our  memory  of  the  past ; 
And  memory  conjures  feelings  up 

That  wine  or  music  need  not  swell, 
As  high  we  lift  the  festal  cup 

To  Kemble — fare  thee  well  ! 

His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  Acting  lends, — 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  Arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends  : 
For  ill  can  Poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  Painting,  mute  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 


OCCASIONAL  AND  PERSONAL          205 

But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come,- 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb. 

Time  may  again  revive, 

But  ne'er  eclipse  the  charm, 
When  Cato  spoke  in  him  alive, 

Or  Hotspur  kindled  warm. 
What  soul  was  not  resign'd  entire 

To  the  deep  sorrows  of  the  Moor, — 
What  English  heart  was  not  on  fire 

With  him  at  Agincourt  ? 
And  yet  a  majesty  possess'd 

His  transport's  most  impetuous  tone, 
And  to  each  passion  of  the  breast 

The  Graces  gave  their  zone. 

High  were  the  task — too  high, 

Ye  conscious  bosoms  here  ! 
In  words  to  paint  your  memory 

Of  Kemble  and  of  Lear  ; 
But  who  forgets  that  white  discrowned  head, 

Those  bursts  of  Reason's  half-extinguish'd  glare  ; 
Those  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed, 
In  doubt — more  touching  than  despair — 
If  'twas  reality  he  felt  ? 

Had  Shakspeare's  self  amidst  you  been, 
Friends,  he  had  seen  you  melt, 
And  triumph'd  to  have  seen  ! 

And  there  was  many  an  hour 

Of  blended  kindred  fame, 
When  Siddons's  auxiliar  power 

And  sister  magic  came. 


206  POEMS,    1809-1836 

Together  at  the  Muse's  side 

The  tragic  paragons  had  grown — 
They  were  the  children  of  her  pride, 

The  columns  of  her  throne  ; 
And  undivided  favour  ran 

From  heart  to  heart  in  their  applause, 
Save  for  the  gallantry  of  man 

In  lovelier  woman's  cause. 

Fair  as  some  classic  dome, 

Robust  and  richly  graced, 
Your  KEMBLE'S  spirit  was  the  home 

Of  genius  and  of  taste  ; 
Taste,  like  the  silent  dial's  power, 

That  when  supernal  light  is  given, 
Can  measure  inspiration's  hour, 

And  tell  its  height  in  heaven. 
At  once  ennobled  and  correct, 

His  mind  survey'd  the  tragic  page, 
And  what  the  actor  could  effect, 

The  scholar  could  presage. 

These  were  his  traits  of  worth  : — 

And  must  we  lose  them  now  ! 
And  shall  the  scene  no  more  show  forth 

His  sternly-pleasing  brow  ! 
Alas,  the  moral  brings  a  tear  ! — 

'Tis  all  a  transient  hour  below  ; 
And  we  that  would  detain  thee  here, 

Ourselves  as  fleetly  go  ! 
Yet  shall  our  latest  age 

This  parting  scene  review  :   - 
Pride  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 

1817. 


OCCASIONAL  AND  PERSONAL          207 


LINES 

ON   REVISITING   A   SCOTTISH   RIVER 

AND  call  they  this  Improvement? — to  have  changed, 
My  native  Clyde,  thy  once  romantic  shore, 
Where  Nature's  face  is  banish'd  and  estranged, 
And  Heaven  reflected  in  thy  wave  no  more ; 
Whose  banks,  that  sweeten'd  May-day's  breath  before, 
Lie  sere  and  leafless  now  in  summer's  beam, 
With  sooty  exhalations  cover'd  o'er  ; 
And  for  the  daisied  green-sward,  down  thy  stream 
Unsightly  brick-lanes  smoke,  and  clanking  engines  gleam. 

Speak  not  to  me  of  swarms  the  scene  sustains ; 
One  heart  free  tasting  Nature's  breath  and  bloom 
Is  worth  a  thousand  slaves  to  Mammon's  gains. 
But  whither  goes  that  wealth,  and  gladdening  whom  ? 
See,  left  but  life  enough  and  breathing-room 
The  hunger  and  the  hope  of  life  to  feel, 
Yon  pale  Mechanic  bending  o'er  his  loom, 
And  Childhood's  self  as  at  Ixion's  wheel, 
From  morn  till  midnight  task'd  to  earn  its  little  meal. 

Is  this  Improvement  ? — where  the  human  breed 
Degenerate  as  they  swarm  and  overflow, 
Till  Toil  grows  cheaper  than  the  trodden  weed, 
And  man  competes  with  man,  like  foe  with  foe, 
Till  Death,  that  thins  them,  scarce  seems  public  woe  ? 
Improvement  ! — smiles  it  in  the  poor  man's  eyes, 
Or  blooms  it  on  the  cheek  of  Labour  ? — No — 
To  gorge  a  few  with  Trade's  precarious  prize, 
We  banish  rural  life,  and  breathe  unwholesome  skies. 


208  POEMS,   1809-1836 

Nor  call  that  evil  slight ;  God  has  not  given 

This  passion  to  the  heart  of  man  in  vain, 

For  Earth's  green  face,  th'  untainted  air  of  Heaven, 

And  all  the  bliss  of  Nature's  rustic  reign. 

For  not  alone  our  frame  imbibes  a  stain 

From  fcetid  skies  ;  the  spirit's  healthy  pride 

Fades  in  their  gloom — And  therefore  I  complain, 

That  thou  no  more  through  pastoral  scenes  shouldst 

glide, 
My  Wallace's  own  stream,  and  once  romantic  Clyde  ! 

1826 


LINES 

ON    RECEIVING   A   SEAL    WITH    THE   CAMPBELL    CREST, 
FROM    K.    M — ,    BEFORE    HER    MARRIAGE 

THIS  wax  returns  not  back  more  fair 
Th'  impression  of  the  gift  you  send, 

Than  stamp'd  upon  my  thoughts  I  bear 
The  image  of  your  worth,  my  friend  ! — 

We  are  not  friends  of  yesterday  ; — 

But  poets'  fancies  are  a  little 
Disposed  to  heat  and  cool,  (they  say,) — 

By  turns  impressible  and  brittle. 

Well  !  should  its  frailty  e'er  condemn 
My  heart  to  prize  or  please  you  less, 

Your  type  is  still  the  sealing  gem, 
And  mine  the  waxen  brittleness. 

What  transcripts  of  my  weal  and  woe 
This  little  signet  yet  may  lock, — 


OCCASIONAL  AND  PERSONAL  209 

What  utterances  to  friend  or  foe, 
In  reason's  calm  or  passion's  shock  ! 

What  scenes  of  life's  yet  curtain'd  stage 

May  own  its  confidential  die, 
Whose  stamp  awaits  th'  unwritten  page, 

And  feelings  of  futurity  ! — 

Yet  wheresoe'er  my  pen  I  lift 

To  date  the  epistolary  sheet, 
The  blest  occasion  of  the  gift 

Shall  make  its  recollection  sweet  ; 

Sent  when  the  star  that  rules  your  fates 
Hath  reach'd  its  influence  most  benign — 

When  every  heart  congratulates 

And  none  more  cordially  than  mine. 

So  speed  my  song — mark'd  with  the  crest 
That  erst  the  advent'rous  Norman  wore, 

Who  won  the  Lady  of  the  West, 
The  daughter  of  Macaillan  Mor. 

Crest  of  my  sires  !  whose  blood  it  seal'd 

With  glory  in  the  strife  of  swords, 
Ne'er  may  the  scroll  that  bears  it  yield 

Degenerate  thoughts  or  faithless  words  ! 

Yet  little  might  I  prize  the  stone, 

If  it  but  typed  the  feudal  tree 
From  whence,  a  scatter'd  leaf,  I'm  blown 

In  Fortune's  mutability. 

No  ! — but  it  tells  me  of  a  heart 

Allied  by  friendship's  living  tie  ; 
A  prize  beyond  the  herald's  art — 

Our  soul-sprung  consanguinity  ! 


aio  POEMS,   1809-1836 

KATH'RINE  !  to  many  an  hour  of  mine 
Light  wings  and  sunshine  you  have  lent ; 

And  so  adieu,  and  still  be  thine 
The  all-in-all  of  life— Content  ! 

1819. 


LINES 

TO   EDWARD   LYTTON   BULWER   ON   THE   BIRTH   OF 
HIS  CHILD 

MY  heart  is  with  you,  Bulwer,  and  pourtrays 

The  blessings  of  your  first  paternal  days  ; 

To  clasp  the  pledge  of  purest,  holiest  faith, 

To  taste  one's  own  and  love-born  infant's  breath,  ' 

I  know,  nor  would  for  worlds  forget  the  bliss 

I've  felt,  that  to  a  father's  heart  that  kiss, 

As  o'er  its  little  lips  you  smile  and  cling, 

Has  fragrance  which  Arabia  could  not  bring. 

Such  are  the  joys,  ill  mock'd  in  ribald  song, 
In  thought,  ev'n  freshening  life  our  lifetime  long, 
That  give  our  souls  on  earth  a  heaven-drawn  bloom  ; 
Without  them  we  are  weeds  upon  a  tomb. 

Joy  be  to  thee,  and  her,  whose  lot  with  thine 
Propitious  stars  saw  Truth  and  Passion  twine  ! 
Joy  be  to  her  who  in  your  rising  name 
Feels  Love's  bower  brighten'd  by  the  beams  of  Fame ! 
I  lack'd  a  father's  claim  to  her — but  knew 
Regard  for  her  young  years  so  pure  and  true, 
That  when  she  at  the  altar  stood  your  bride, 
A  sire  could  scarce  have  felt  more  sire-like  pride. 

1828. 


OCCASIONAL  AND  PERSONAL 


LINES  TO  JULIA  M- 


SENT  WITH   A   COPY   OF  THE  AUTHOR'S   POEMS 

SINCE  there  is  magic  in  your  look, 
And  in  your  voice  a  witching  charm, 
As  all  our  hearts  consenting  tell, 
Enchantress,  smile  upon  my  book, 
And  guard  its  lays  from  hate  and  harm 
By  beauty's  most  resistless  spell. 

The  sunny  dew-drop  of  thy  praise, 
Young  day-star  of  the  rising  time, 
Shall  with  its  odoriferous  morn 
Refresh  my  sere  and  wither'd  bays  : 
Smile,  and  I  will  believe  my  rhyme 
Shall  please  the  beautiful  unborn. 

Go  forth,  my  pictured  thoughts,  and  rise 
In  traits  and  tints  of  sweeter  tone, 
When  Julia's  glance  is  o'er  ye  flung  ; 
Glow,  gladden,  linger  in  her  eyes, 
And  catch  a  magic  not  your  own, 
Read  by  the  music  of  her  tongue. 

1829. 


A  THOUGHT  SUGGESTED   BY  THE 
NEW  YEAR 

THE  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 

Our  life's  succeeding  stages  : 
A  day  to  childhood  seems  a  year, 

And  years  like  passing  ages. 


POEMS,   1809-1836 

The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth, 

Ere  passion  yet  disorders, 
Steals,  lingering  like  a  river  smooth 

Along  its  grassy  borders. 

But  as  the  care-worn  cheek  grows  wan, 

And  sorrow's  shafts  fly  thicker, 
Ye  stars,  that  measure  life  to  man. 

Why  seem  your  courses  quicker  ? 

When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and  breath, 

And  life  itself  is  vapid, 
Why,  as  we  reach  the  Falls  of  death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid  ? 

It  may  be  strange — yet  who  would  change 
Time's  course  to  slower  speeding  ; 

When  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone, 
And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding  ? 

Heaven  gives  our  years  of  fading  strength 

Indemnifying  fleetness ; 
And  those  of  youth,  a  seeming  length, 

Proportion'd  to  their  sweetness. 

1836. 


LIGHTER    LYRICS 


SONG 

MY  mind  is  my  kingdom,  but  if  thou  wilt  deign 
A  queen  there  to  sway  without  measure, 

Then  come,  o'er  its  wishes  and  homage  to  reign, 
And  make  it  an  empire  of  pleasure. 

Then  of  thoughts  and  emotions  each  mutinous  crowd, 
That  rebell'd  at  stern  reason  and  duty, 

Returning — shall  yield  all  their  loyalty  proud 
To  the  Halcyon  dominion  of  beauty. 

1 8 10. 

SONG 

DRINK  ye  to  her  that  each  loves  best, 

And  if  you  nurse  a  flame 
That's  told  but  to  her  mutual  breast, 

We  will  not  ask  her  name. 

Enough,  while  memory  tranced  and  glad 

Paints  silently  the  fair, 
That  each  should  dream  of  joys  he's  had, 

Or  yet  may  hope  to  share. 

Yet  far,  far  hence  be  jest  or  boast 
From  hallow'd  thoughts  so  dear  ; 

But  drink  to  her  that  each  loves  most, 
As  she  would  love  to  hear. 


215 


216  POEMS,    1809-1836 


SONG 

OH,  how  hard  it  is  to  find 

The  one  just  suited  to  our  mind  ! 

And  if  that  one  should  be 
False,  unkind,  or  found  too  late, 
What  can  we  do  but  sigh  at  fate, 

And  sing  Woe's  me — Woe's  me  ? 

Love's  a  boundless  burning  waste, 
Where  Bliss's  stream  we  seldom  taste, 

And  still  more  seldom  flee 
Suspense's  thorns,  Suspicion's  stings  ; 
Yet  somehow  Love  a  something  brings 

That's  sweet — e'en  when  we  sigh  "  Woe's  me  ! 

1823. 

SONG 

WITHDRAW  not  yet  those  lips  and  ringers, 
Whose  touch  to  mine  is  rapture's  spell  ; 

Life's  joy  for  us  a  moment  lingers, 

And  death  seems  in  the  word — Farewell. 

The  hour  that  bids  us  part  and  go, 

It  sounds  not  yet, — oh  !  no,  no,  no  ! 

Time,  whilst  I  gaze  upon  thy  sweetness, 
Flies  like  a  courser  nigh  the  goal  ; 

To-morrow  where  shall  be  liis  fleetness, 
When  thou  art  parted  from  my  soul  ? 

Our  hearts  shall  beat,  our  tears  shall  flow, 

But  not  together — no,  no,  no  ! 

1823. 


LIGHTER  LYRICS  217 


SONG 

WHEN  LOVE  came  first  to  earth,  the  SPRING 
Spread  rose-beds  to  receive  him, 

And  back  he  vow'd  his  flight  he'd  wing 
To  Heaven,  if  she  should  leave  him. 

But  SPRING  departing,  saw  his  faith 
Pledged  to  the  next  new-comer — 

lie  revell'd  in  the  warmer  breath 
And  richer  bowers  of  SUMMER. 

Then  sportive  AUTUMN  claim'd  by  rights 

An  Archer  for  her  lover, 
And  even  in  WINTER'S  dark  cold  nights 

A  charm  he  could  discover. 

Her  routs  and  balls,  and  fireside  joy, 
For  this  time  were  his  reasons — 

In  short,  Young  Love's  a  gallant  boy, 
That  likes  all  times  and  seasons. 

1829. 


SONG 

To  Love  in  my  heart,  I  exclaim' d  t'other  morning. 
Thou  hast  dwelt  here  too  long,  little  lodger,  take  warning ; 
Thou  shalt  tempt  me  no  more  from  my  life's  sober  duty, 
To  go  gadding,  bewitch'd  by  the  young  eyes  of  beauty. 

For  weary's  the  wooing,  ah  !  weary, 
When  an  old  man  will  have  a  young  dearie  ! 


218  POEMS,    1809-1836 

The  god  left  my  heart,  at  its  surly  reflections, 
But  came  back  on  pretext  of  some  sweet  recollections, 
And  he  made  me  forget  what  I  ought  to  remember 
That  the  rose-bud  of  June  cannot  bloom  in  November. 

Ah  !  Tom,  'tis  all  o'er  with  thy  gay  days — 
Write  psalms,  and  not  songs  for  the  ladies. 

But  time's  been  so  far  from  my  wisdom  enriching, 
That  the  longer  I  live,  beauty  seems  more  bewitching  ; 
And  the  only  new  lore  my  experience  traces, 
Is  to  find  fresh  enchantment  in  magical  faces. 

How  weary  is  wisdom,  how  weary  ! 
When  one  sits  by  a  smiling  young  dearie  ! 

And  should  she  be  wroth  that  my  homage  pursues  her, 

I  will  turn  and  retort  on  my  lovely  accuser  ; 

Who's    to    blame,    that    my   heart    by    your    image    is 

haunted  ? — 
It  is  you,  the  enchantress — not  I,  the  enchanted. 

Would  you  have  me  behave  more  discreetly, 
Beauty,  look  not  so  killingly  sweetly. 

1830. 

SENEX'S  SOLILOQUY  ON  HIS 
YOUTHFUL   IDOL 

PLATONIC  friendship  dt  your  years, 
Says  Conscience,  should  content  ye  : 

Nay,  name  not  fondness  to  her  ears, 
The  darling's  scarcely  twenty. 

Yes,  and  she'll  loathe  me  unforgiven, 

To  dote  thus  out  of  season  ; 
But  beauty  is  a  beam  from  heaven, 

That  dazzles  blind  our  reason. 


LIGHTER  LYRICS  219 

I'll  challenge  Plato  from  the  skies, 

Yes,  from  his  spheres  harmonic, 
To  look  in  M — y  C 's  eyes, 

And  try  to  be  Platonic. 

1834. 


SONG 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 
Of  a  kiss  at  Love's  beginning, 
When  two  mutual  hearts  are  sighing 
For  the  knot  there's  no  untying  ! 

Yet,  remember,  'midst  your  wooing, 
Love  has  bliss,  but  Love  has  ruing ; 
Other  smiles  may  make  you  fickle, 
Tears  for  other  charms  may  trickle. 

Love  he  comes,  and  Love  he  tarries, 
Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries  ; 
Longest  stays,  when  sorest  chidden  ; 
Laughs  and  flies,  when  press'd  and  bidden. 

Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly, 
Bind  its  odour  to  the  lily, 
Bind  the  aspen  ne'er  to  quiver, 
Then  bind  Love  to  last  for  ever  ! 

Love's  a  fire  that  needs  renewal 

Of  fresh  beauty  for  its  fuel ; 

Love's  wing  moults  when  caged  and  captured, 

Only  free,  he  soars  enraptured. 


POEMS,   1809-1836 

Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging, 
Or  the  ringdove's  neck  from  changing 
No  !  nor  fetter'd  Love  from  dying 
In  the  knot  there's  no  untying. 

1836. 


MARGARET    AND    DORA 

MARGARET'S  beauteous — Grecian  arts 
Ne'er  drew  form  completer, 
Yet  why,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
Hold  I  Dora's  sweeter  ? 

Dora's  eyes  of  heavenly  blue 
Pass  all  painting's  reach, 
Ringdove's  notes  are  discord  to 
The  music  of  her  speech. 

Artists  !  Margaret's  smile  receive, 
And  on  canvas  show  it ; 
But  for  perfect  worship  leave 
Dora  to  her  poet. 

1836. 


LATEST    POEMS,     1837-1841 


CORA  LINN,   OR  THE  FALLS  OF  THE 
CLYDE 

WRITTEN    ON    REVISITING    IT    IN   1837 

THE  time  I  saw  thee,  Cora,  last, 
'Twas  with  congenial  friends  ; 
And  calmer  hours  of  pleasure  past 
My  memory  seldom  sends. 

It  was  as  sweet  an  Autumn  day 
As  ever  shone  on  Clyde, 
And  Lanark's  orchards  all  the  way 
Put  forth  their  golden  pride  ; 

Ev'n  hedges,  busk'd  in  bravery, 
Look'd  rich  that  sunny  morn  ; 
The  scarlet  hip  and  blackberry 
So  prank'd  September's  thorn. 

In  Cora's  glen  the  calm  how  deep  ! 
That  trees  on  loftiest  hill 
Like  statues  stood,  or  things  asleep, 
All  motionless  and  still. 

The  torrent  spoke,  as  if  his  noise 
Bade  earth  be  quiet  round, 
And  give  his  loud  and  lonely  voice 
A  more  commanding  sound. 
223 


224  LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841 

His  foam,  beneath  the  yellow  light 
Of  noon,  came  down  like  one 
Continuous  sheet  of  jaspers  bright, 
{{road  rolling  by  the  sun. 

Dear  Linn  !  let  loftier  falling  floods 
Have  prouder  names  than  thine  ; 
And  king  of  all,  enthroned  in  woods, 
Let  Niagara  shine. 

Barbarian,  let  him  shake  his  coasts 
With  reeking  thunders  far, 
Extended  like  th'  array  of  hosts 
In  broad,  embattled  war  ! 

His  voice  appals  the  wilderness  : 
Approaching  thine,  we  feel 
A  solemn,  deep  melodiousness, 
That  needs  no  louder  peal. 

More  fury  would  but  disenchant 
Thy  dream-inspiring  din  ; 
Be  thou  the  Scottish  Muse's  haunt, 
Romantic  Cora  Linn. 

1837- 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE   BRITISH   SAILOR 

I  LOVE  contemplating — apart 
From  all  his  homicidal  story, 

The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 
Napoleon's  glory. 


LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841  225 

'Twas  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 

Arm'd  in  our  Island  every  freeman, 
His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 

Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffer'd  him — I  know  not  how, 

Unprison'd  on  the  shore  to  roam  ; 
Where  evermore  he  bent  his  brow 

On  England's  home. 

Methinks  his  eye  pursued  the  flight 

Of  glimmering  sea-birds  half-way  over  ; 

With  envy  they  could  reach  the  white, 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer, 

If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banish'd  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning — dreaming — doating, 

An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating ; 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave  :  he  wrought 
From  every  eye  by  daylight  lurking, 

And  formed  at  last  a  tiny  boat 
By  tedious  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  'twas  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched  :  such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  cross'd  a  ferry  : — 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt-sea  field, 
A  thing  to  make  the  boldest  shudder ; 

Q 


226  LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841 

Untarr'd,  uncompass'd,  and  unkeel'd, 
No  sail — no  rudder. 

From  neighb'ring  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows  ; 

And  thus  equipp'd  he  would  have  faced 
The  foaming  billows — 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 
His  little  Argo  sorely  jeering  ; 

Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 
Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 
Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger  ; 

And,  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Address'd  the  stranger  : — 

"  Rash  man,  that  would'st  yon  Channel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  thus  rudely  fashion'd  ; 

Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassion'd." 

"  I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad  ; 

' '  But — absent  long  from  one  another — 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 

To  see  my  mother. " 

"  And  so  thou  shall,"  Napoleon  said, 
"  Ye've  both  my  favour  fairly  won  ; 

A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 

And  with  a  flag  of  truce  commanded 

He  should  be  shipp'd  for  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 


LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841  227 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 
To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty  ; 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte. 

1838. 


BENLOMOND 

HADST  thou  a  genius  on  thy  peak, 
What  tales,  white-headed  Ben, 

Could'st  thou  of  ancient  ages  speak, 
That  mock  th'  historian's  pen  ! 

Thy  long  duration  makes  our  lives 

Seem  but  so  many  hours  ; 
And  likens,  to  the  bees'  frail  hives, 

Our  most  stupendous  towers. 

Temples  and  towers  thou'st  seen  begun, 
New  creeds,  new  conquerors'  sway  ; 

And,  like  their  shadows  in  the  sun, 
Hast  seen  them  swept  away. 

Thy  steadfast  summit,  heaven-allied 

(Unlike  life's  little  span), 
Looks  down,  a  Mentor,  on  the  pride 

Of  perishable  man. 

1837- 

THE  CHILD  AND   HIND 

COME,  maids  and  matrons,  to  caress 
Wiesbaden's  gentle  hind  ; 
And,  smiling,  deck  its  glossy  neck 
With  forest  flowers  entwined. 


228  LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841 

Your  forest  flowers  are  fair  to  show, 
And  landscapes  to  enjoy  ; 
But  fairer  is  your  friendly  doe 
That  watch'd  the  sleeping  boy. 

"Twas  after  church — on  Ascension  day- 
When  organs  ceased  to  sound, 
Wiesbaden's  people  crowded  gay 
The  deer-park's  pleasant  ground. 

There,  where  Elysian  meadows  smile, 
And  noble  trees  upshoot, 
The  wild  thyme  and  the  camomile 
Smell  sweetly  at  their  root ; 

The  aspen  quivers  nervously, 

The  oak  stands  stilly  bold — 

And  climbing  bindweed  hangs  on  high 

His  bells  of  beaten  gold. 

Nor  stops  the  eye  till  mountains  shine 
That  bound  a  spacious  view, 
Beyond  the  lordly,  lovely  Rhine, 
In  visionary  blue. 

There,  monuments  of  ages  dark 
Awaken  thoughts  sublime  ; 
Till,  swifter  than  the  steaming  bark, 
We  mount  the  stream  of  time. 

The  ivy  there  old  castles  shades 
That  speak  traditions  high 
Of  minstrels — tournaments — crusades, 
And  mail-clad  chivalry. 

Here  came  a  twelve  years'  married  pair- 
And  with  them  wander'd  free 


LATEST  POEMS,  1837-1841  229 

Seven  sons  and  daughters,  blooming  fair, 
A  gladsome  sight  to  see. 

Their  Wilhelm,  little  innocent, 
The  youngest  of  the  seven, 
Was  beautiful  as  painters  paint 
The  cherubim  of  Heaven. 

By  turns  he  gave  his  hand,  so  dear, 
To  parent,  sister,  brother  ; 
And  each,  that  he  was  safe  and  near, 
Confided  in  the  other. 

But  Wilhelm  loved  the  field-flowers  blight, 
With  love  beyond  all  measure  ; 
And  cull'd  them  with  as  keen  delight 
As  misers  gather  treasure. 

Unnoticed,  he  contrived  to  glide 
Adown  a  greenwood  alley, 
By  lilies  lured — that  grew  beside 
A  streamlet  in  the  valley  ; 

And  there,  where  under  beech  and  birch 
The  rivulet  meander'd, 
He  stray'd,  till  neither  shout  nor  search 
Could  track  where  he  had  wander'd. 

Still  louder,  with  increasing  dread, 
They  call'd  his  darling  name  ; 
But  'twas  like  speaking  to  the  dead — 
An  echo  only  came. 

Hours  pass'd  till  evening's  beetle  roams, 
And  blackbird's  songs  begin  ; 
Then  all  went  back  to  happy  homes, 
Save  Wilhelm's  kith  and  kin. 


230  LATEST  POEMS,  1837    1841 

The  night  came  on — all  others  slept 
Their  cares  away  till  morn  ; 
But  sleepless,  all  night  watch'd  and  wept 
That  family  forlorn. 

Betimes  the  town-crier  had  been  sent 
With  loud  bell,  up  and  down  ; 
And  told  th'  afflicting  accident 
Throughout  Wiesbaden's  town  : 

The  father,  too,  ere  morning  smiled, 
Had  all  his  wealth  uncoffer'd  ; 
And  to  the  wight  would  bring  his  child 
A  thousand  crowns  had  offer'd. 

Dear  friends,  who  would  have  bltish'd  to  take 
That  guerdon  from  his  hand, 
Soon  join'd  in  groups — for  pity's  sake, 
The  child-exploring  band. 

The  news  reach'd  Nassau's  Duke  :  ere  earth 

Was  gladden'd  by  the  lark, 

He  sent  a  hundred  soldiers  forth 

To  ransack  all  his  park. 

Their  side-arms  glitter'd  through  the  wood, 
With  bugle-horns  to  sound  ; 
Would  that  on  errand  half  so  good 
The  soldier  oft  were  found  ! 

But  though  they  roused  up  beast  and  bird 
From  many  a  nest  and  den, 
No  signal  of  success  was  heard 
From  all  the  hundred  men. 

A  second  morning's  light  expands, 
Unfound  the  infant  fair ; 


LATEST  POEMS,  1837-1841  231 

And  Wilhelm's  household  wring  their  hands, 
Ahandon'd  to  despair. 

But,  haply,  a  poor  artisan 
Search'd  ceaslessly,  till  he 
Found  safe  asleep  the  little  one, 
Beneath  a  beechen  tree. 

His  hand  still  grasp'd  a  bunch  of  flowers  ; 
And  (true,  though  wondrous)  near, 
To  sentry  his  reposing  hours, 
There  stood  a  female  deer — 

Who  dipp'd  her  horns  at  all  that  pass'd 
The  spot  where  Wilhelm  lay  ; 
Till  force  was  had  to  hold  her  fast, 
And  bear  the  boy  away. 

Hail !  sacred  love  of  childhood — hail ! 
How  sweet  it  is  to  trace 
Thine  instinct  in  Creation's  scale, 
Ev'n  'neath  the  human  race. 

To  this  poor  wanderer  of  the  wild 
Speech,  reason  were  unknown — 
And  yet  she  watch'd  a  sleeping  child 
As  if  it  were  her  own  ; 

And  thou,  Wiesbaden's  artisan, 
Restorer  of  the  boy, 
Was  ever  welcomed  mortal  man 
With  such  a  burst  of  joy? 

The  father's  ecstasy — the  mother's 
Hysteric  bosom's  swell  ; 
The  sisters'  sobs — the  shout  of  brothers, 
I  have  not  power  to  tell. 


232  LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841 

The  working  man,  with  shoulders  broad, 
Took  blithely  to  his  wife 
The  thousand  crowns  ;  a  pleasant  load, 
That  made  him  rich  for  life. 

And  Nassau's  Duke  the  favourite  took 
Into  his  deer-park's  centre, 
To  share  a  field  with  other  pets 
Where  deer-slayer  cannot  enter. 

There,  whilst  thou  cropp'st  thy  flowery  food 
Each  hand  shall  pat  thee  kind  ; 
And  man  shall  never  spill  thy  blood — 
Wiesbaden's  gentle  hind. 

1841. 


ON  GETTING  HOME 

THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  FEMALE  CHILD 
Six  YEARS  OLD 

PAINTED   BY   EUGENIO    LATII.I.A 

TYPE  of  the  Cherubim  above, 
Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love  ! 
Smile  from  my  wall,  dear  roguish  sprite, 
By  sunshine  and  by  candle-light ; 
For  both  look  sweetly  on  thy  traits  : 
Or,  were  the  Lady  Moon  to  gaze, 
She'd  welcome  thee  with  lustre  bland, 
Like  some  young  fay  from  Fairyland. 
Cast  in  simplicity's  own  mould, 
How  canst  thou  be  so  manifold 


LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841  233 

In  sportively  distracting  charms  ? 
Thy  lips — thine  eyes — -thy  little  arms 
That  wrap  thy  shoulders  and  thy  head, 
In  homeliest  shawl  of  netted  thread, 
Brown  woollen  net-work  ;  yet  it  seeks 
Accordance  with  thy  lovely  cheeks, 
And'  more  becomes  thy  beauty's  bloom 
Than  any  shawl  from  Cashmere's  loom. 
Thou  hast  not,  to  adorn  thee,  girl, 
Flower,  link  of  gold,  or  gem  or  pearl — 
I  would  not  let  a  ruby  speck 
The  peeping  whiteness  of  thy  neck  : 
Thou  need'st  no  casket,  witching  elf, 
No  gawd — thy  toilet  is  thyself ; 
Not  e'en  a  rose-bud  from  the  bower, 
Thyself  a  magnet — gem  and  flower. 

My  arch  and  playful  little  creature, 
Thou  hast  a  mind  in  every  feature  ; 
Thy  brow,  with  its  disparted  locks, 
Speaks  language  that  translation  mocks  ; 
Thy  lucid  eyes  so  beam  with  soul, 
They  on  the  canvas  seem  to  roll — 
Instructing  both  my  head  and  heart 
To  idolize  the  painter's  art. 
He  marshals  minds  to  Beauty's  feast — 
He  is  Humanity's  high  priest, 
Who  proves,  by  heavenly  forms  on  earth, 
How  much  this  world  of  ours  is  worth. 
Inspire  me,  child,  with  visions  fair  ! 
For  children,  in  Creation,  are 
The  only  things  that  could  be  given 
Back,  and  alive — unchanged— to  Heaven. 

1840. 


234  LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841 


THE  PARROT  OF   MULL 

A   DOMESTIC   ANECDOTE 

THE  deep  affections  of  the  breast, 

That  Heaven  to  living  things  imparts, 

Are  not  exclusively  possess'd 
By  human  hearts. 

A  parrot,  from  the  Spanish  Main, 

Full  young,  and  early  caged,  came  o'er 

With  bright  wings,  to  the  bleak  domain 
Of  Mulla's  shore. 

To  spicy  groves  where  he  had  won 
His  plumage  of  resplendent  hue, 

His  native  fruits,  and  skies,  and  sun, 
He  bade  adieu. 

For  these  he  changed  the  smoke  of  turf, 
A  heathery  land  and  misty  sky, 

And  turn'd  on  rocks  and  raging  surf 
His  golden  eye. 

But,  petted,  in  our  climate  cold 

He  lived  and  chatter'd  many  a  day  : 

Until  with  age,  from  green  and  gold 
His  wings  grew  grey. 

At  last,  when,  blind  and  seeming  dumb, 
He  scolded,  laugh'd,  and  spoke  no  more, 

A  Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  Mulla's  shore ; 


LATEST  POEMS,  1837-1841  235 

lie  hail'd  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech  ; 

The  bird  in  Spanish  speech  replied, 
Flapp'd  round  his  cage  with  joyous  screech, 

Dropt  clown,  and  died. 


SONG  OF  THE  COLONISTS   DEPARTING 
FOR  NEW  ZEALAND 

STEER,  helmsman,  till  you  steer  our  way 

By  stars  beyond  the  line  ; 
We  go  to  found  a  realm,  one  day, 

Like  England's  self  to  shine. 


Cheer  up — cheer  up — our  course  we'll  keep, 

With  dauntless  heart  and  hand  ; 
And  when  we've  plough'd  the  stormy  deep, 

We'll  plough  a  smiling  land  : — 

A  land,  where  beauties  importune 

The  Briton  to  its  bowers, 
To  sow  but  plenteous  seeds,  and  prune 

Luxuriant  fruits  and  flowers. 

Chortis. — Cheer  up — cheer  up,  etc. 

There,  tracts  uncheer'd  by  human  words, 

Seclusion's  wildest  holds, 
Shall  hear  the  lowing  of  our  herds, 

And  tinkling  of  our  folds. 

Chorus.—  Cheer  up — cheer  up,  etc. 


236  LATEST  POEMS,  1837-1841 

Like  rubies  set  in  gold,  shall  blush 

Our  vineyards  girt  with  corn  ; 
And  wine,  and  oil,  and  gladness  gush 

From  Amalthea's  horn. 

Chorus. — Cheer  up — cheer  up,  etc. 

Britannia's  pride  is  in  our  hearts, 

Her  blood  is  in  our  veins — 
We'll  girdle  earth  with  British  arts, 

Like  Ariel's  magic  chains. 


Cheer  up — cheer  up — our  course  we'll  keep, 
With  dauntless  heart  and  hand  ; 

And  when  we've  plough'd  the  stormy  deep, 
We'll  plough  a  smiling  land. 

1841. 

MOONLIGHT 

THE  kiss  that  makes  a  maid's  cheek  flush 
Wroth,  as  if  kissing  were  a  sin, 
Amidst  the  Argus  eyes  and  din 

And  tell-tale  glare  of  noon, 
Brings  but  a  murmur  and  a  blush, 
Beneath  the  modest  moon. 

Ye  days,  gone — never  to  come  back, 
When  love  return'd  entranced  me  so, 
That  still  its  pictures  move  and  glow 
In  the  dark  chamber  of  my  heart ; 
Leave  not  my  memory's  future  track — 
I  will  not  let  you  part. 


LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841  237 

'Twas  moonlight,  when  my  earliest  love 
First  on  my  bosom  dropt  her  head  ; 
A  moment  then  concentrated 
The  bliss  of  years,  as  if  the  spheres 

Their  course  had  faster  driven, 
And  carried,  Enoch-like  above, 
A  living  man  to  Heaven. 

'Tis  by  the  rolling  moon  we  measure 
The  date  between  our  nuptial  night 
And  that  blest  hour  which  brings  to  light 
The  pledge  of  faith — the  fruit  of  bliss  ; 
When  we  impress  upon  the  treasure 
A  father's  earliest  kiss. 

The  Moon's  the  Earth's  enamour'd  bride  ; 
True  to  him  in  her  very  changes, 
To  other  stars  she  never  ranges  : 

Though,  cross'd  by  him,  sometimes  she  dips 
Her  light,  in  short  offended  pride, 
And  faints  to  an  eclipse. 

The  fairies  revel  by  her  sheen  ; 
'Tis  only  when  the  Moon's  above 
The  fire-fly  kindles  into  love, 

And  flashes  light  to  show  it : 
The  nightingale  salutes  her  Queen 
Of  Heaven,  her  heav'nly  poet. 

Then  ye  that  love — by  moonlight  gloom 
Meet  at  my  grave,  and  plight  regard. 
Oh  !  could  I  be  the  Orphean  bard 

Of  whom  it  is  reported, 
That  nightingales  sung  o'er  his  tomb 
Whilst  lovers  came  and  courted. 


238  LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841 


CHAUCER  AND  WINDSOR 

LONG  shall  thou  flourish,  Windsor  !  bodying  forth 

Chivalric  times,  and  long  shall  live  around 

Thy  Castle  the  old  oaks  of  British  birth, 

Whose  gnarled  roots,  tenacious  and  profound, 

As  with  a  lion's  talons  grasp  the  ground. 

But  should  thy  towers  in  ivied  ruin  rot, 

There's  one,  thine  inmate  once,  whose  strain  renown'd 

Would  interdict  thy  name  to  be  forgot ; 

For  Chaucer  loved  thy  bowers  and  trode  this  very  spot. 

Chaucer  !  our  Helicon's  first  fountain-stream, 

Our  morning  star  of  song — that  led  the  way 

To  welcome  the  long-after  coming  beam 

Of  Spenser's  light  and  Shakespeare's  perfect  day. 

Old  England's  fathers  live  in  Chaucer's  lay, 

As  if  they  ne'er  had  died.     He  group'd  and  drew 

Their  likeness  with  a  spirit  of  life  so  gay, 

That  still  they  live  and  breathe  in  Fancy's  view, 

Fresh  beings  fraught  with  truth's  imperishable  hue. 


LINES 

SUGGESTED   BY   THE   STATUE  OF  ARNOLD  VON 
WINKELRIED,   STANZ-UNTERWALDEN 

INSPIRING  and  romantic  Switzers'  land, 
Though  mark'd  with  majesty  by  Nature's  hand, 
What  charm  ennobles  most  thy  landscape's  face  ? — 
Th'  heroic  memory  of  thy  native  race — 
Who  forced  tyrannic  hosts  to  bleed  or  flee, 


LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841  239 

And  made  their  rocks  the  ramparts  of  the  free  ; 
Their  fastnesses  roll'd  back  th'  invading  tide 
Of  conquest,  and  their  mountains  taught  them  pride. 
Hence  they  have  patriot  names — in  fancy's  eye, 
Bright  as  their  glaciers  glittering  in  the  sky  ; 
Patriots  who  make  the  pageantries  of  kings 
Like  shadows  seem  and  unsubstantial  things. 
Their  guiltless  glory  mocks  oblivion's  rust, 
Imperishable,  for  their  cause  was  just. 

Heroes  of  old  !  to  whom  the  Nine  have  strung 
Their  lyres,  and  spirit-stirring  anthems  sung  ; 
Heroes  of  chivalry  !  whose  banners  grace 
The  aisles  of  many  a  consecrated  place, 
Confess  how  few  of  you  can  match  in  fame 
The  martyr  Winkelried's  immortal  name  ! 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

WHO  ASKED   ME  TO  WRITE   SOMETHING   ORIGINAL 
FOR   HER   ALBUM 

AN  original  something,  fair  maid,  you  would  win  me 
To  write — but  how  shall  I  begin  ? 
For  I  fear  I  have  nothing  original  in  me — 
Excepting  Original  Sin. 

LINES  ON   MY  NEW  CHILD-SWEET- 
HEART 

I  HOLD  it  a  religious  duty 
To  love  and  worship  children's  beauty 
They've  least  the  taint  of  earthly  clod, 
They're  freshest  from  the  hand  of  God  ; 


240  LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841 

With  heavenly  looks  they  make  us  sure 
The  heaven  that  made  them  must  be  pure 
We  love  them  not  in  earthly  fashion, 
But  with  a  beatific  passion. 

I  chanced  to,  yesterday,  behold 
A  maiden  child  of  beauty's  mould  ; 
'Twas  near  (more  sacred  was  the  scene) 
The  palace  of  our  patriot  Queen. 
The  little  charmer  to  my  view 
Was  sculpture  brought  to  life  anew, 
Her  eyes  had  a  poetic  glow, 
Her  pouting  mouth  was  Cupid's  bow  : 
And  through  her  frock  I  could  descry 
Her  neck  and  shoulders'  symmetry. 
'Twas  obvious  from  her  walk  and  gait 
Her  limbs  were  beautifully  straight ; 
I  stopp'd  th'  enchantress,  and  was  told, 
Though  tall,  she  was  but  four  years  old. 
Her  guide  so  grave  an  aspect  wore 
I  could  not  ask  a  question  more  ; 
But  follow'd  her.     The  little  one 
Threw  backward  ever  and  anon 
Her  lovely  neck,  as  if  to  say, 
'  I  know  you  love  me,  Mister  Grey  ;  " 
For  by  its  instinct  childhood's  eye 
Is  shrewd  in  physiognomy  ; 
They  well  distinguish  fawning  art 
From  sterling  fondness  of  the  heart. 

And  so  she  flirted,  like  a  true 
Good  woman,  till  we  bade  adieu. 
'Twas  then  I  with  regret  grew  wild, 
Oh,  beauteous,  interesting  child  ! 


LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841  241 

Why  ask'd  I  not  thy  home  and  name  ? 
My  courage  fail'd  me — more's  the  shame. 
But  where  abides  this  jewel  rare? 
Oh,  ye  that  own  her,  tell  me  where  ! 
For  sad  it  makes  my  heart  and  sore 
To  think  I  ne'er  may  meet  her  more. 

1841. 


TO  THE  SAME 

A    NEW    POEM    ON    MV    YOUNGEST    SWEETHEART 

DEAR  girl,  be  once  again  my  theme, 

Thou  kindlest  my  prophetic  dream  ; 

I  see  the  future — I  foresee 

The  witching  woman  thou  wilt  be, 

Magnificent  in  shape  and  size, 

A  pair  of  poems  in  thine  eyes, 

With  nose  half  aquiline  to  speak 

The  conquest  of  the  eagle's  beak, 

Slaying  round  thee  human  hearts  by  nines, 

Like  Sampson  'midst  the  Philistines. 

I  see  a  thousand  votaries  stand 
Too  timorous  to  ask  thy  hand  ; 
I  hear  their  pale  lips,  as  they  whine, 
Breathe  love-songs  even  worse  than  mine  ; 
I  hear  some  boldly  speak  a  while, 
Then  rush  from  thy  refusing  smile 
And  plunge  into  the  Ocean's  brine, 
Or  suicidal  Serpentine. 

All  this,  my  child,  will  be  thy  doom 
When  I  am  dead  and  in  my  tomb  ; 

R 


242  LATEST  POEMS,  1837-1841 

One  thing  will  thrill  my  dust  alone, 
Thy  tread  on  my  sepulchral  stone. 
But  ere  I  die  let  me  pourtray 
Thy  bliss  in  beauty's  perfect  day  : — 
He'll  come,  the  young  and  manly  man — 
A  lover  ! — scorn  him  if  you  can  ; 
With  pride  and  air  to  match  your  own, 
He'll  woo  you  in  a  gallant  tone  ; 
And  while  your  gratitude  he  earns, 
You'll  tremble,  weep,  and  laugh  by  turns, 
And  he  will  press  his  suit  until 
You  find  him  Mister  Suitable. 

Then  go  and  wed,  ye  pair  the  prime 
That  ever  link'd  since  Adam's  time  ! 
Old  Adam,  by  the  way,  I  grant 
To  Eve  was  scarcely  half  gallant, 
When  he  impeached  her  'bout  the  apple 
That  stuck  in  his  voracious  thrapple. 
From  Eden  they  were  driven  ! — ye  twain 
Will  enter  Paradise  again. 

1841. 


THE  LAUNCH   OF  A  FIRST-RATE 

WRITTEN   ON   WITNESSING   THE   SPECTACLE 

ENGLAND  hails  thee  with  emotion, 

Mightiest  child  of  Naval  art, 
Heaven  resounds  thy  welcome  !  Ocean 

Takes  thee  smiling  to  his  heart. 


LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841  243 

Giant  oaks  of  bold  expansion 

O'er  seven  hundred  acres  fell, 
All  to  build  thy  noble  mansion, 

Where  our  hearts  of  oak  shall  dwell. 


'Midst  those  trees  the  wild  deer  bounded, 

Ages  long  ere  we  were  born, 
And  our  great-grandfathers  sounded 

Many  a  jovial  hunting-horn. 

Oaks  that  living  did  inherit 

Grandeur  from  our  earth  and  sky  ! 

Still  robust,  the  native  spirit 
In  your  timbers  shall  not  die. 

Ship  to  shine  in  martial  story, 

Thou  shalt  cleave  the  ocean's  path 

Freighted  with  Britannia's  glory 
And  the  thunders  of  her  wrath. 

Foes  shall  crowd  their  sails  and  fly  thee, 
Threat'ning  havoc  to  their  deck, 

When  afar  they  first  descry  thee, 
Like  the  coming  whirlwind's  speck. 

Gallant  Bark  !  thy  pomp  and  beauty 
Storm  nor  battle  e'er  shall  blast, 

Whilst  our  tars  in  pride  and  duty 
Nail  thy  colours  to  the  mast. 

1840. 


244 


LATEST  POEMS,   1837-1841 


TO   MY  NIECE,   MARY  CAMPBELL 

OUR  friendship's  not  a  stream  to  dry, 
Or  stop  with  angry  jar  ; 

A  life-long  planet  in  our  sky- 
No  meteor-shooting  star. 

Thy  playfulness  and  pleasant  ways 

Shall  cheer  my  wintry  track, 
And  give  my  old  declining  days 

A  second  summer  back  ! 

Proud  honesty  protects  our  lot, 

No  dun  infests  our  bowers  ; 
Wealth's  golden  lamps  illumine  not 

Brows  more  content  than  ours. 

To  think,  too,  thy  remembrance  fond 

May  love  me  after  death, 
Gives  fancied  happiness  beyond 

My  lease  of  living  breath. 

Meanwhile  thine  intellects  presage 

A  life-time  rich  in  truth, 
And  make  me  feel  th'  advance  of  age 

Retarded  by  thy  youth  ! 

Good-night  !  propitious  dreams  betide 

Thy  sleep  !— awaken  gay, 
And  we  will  make  to-morrow  glide 

As  cheerful  as  to-day  ! 

1841. 


NOTES 


245 


NOTES 


INTRODUCTION 

PAGE  X 

SEPTEMBER  10,  1803  :  The  dates  of  the  poet's  own  letters  in 
Dr.  Beattie's  Life  leave  no  doubt  of  this,  although  it  seems  to 
be  contradicted  by  an  entry  in  a  newspaper  of  1803,  which  gives 
Oct.  18  as  the  day  of  the  marriage. 

3  Translation  from  Euripides'  Medea :  This  and  the  following 
paraphrase  were  college  exercises  which  the  poet  afterwards 
included  amongst  his  published  works.  They  were  published 
with  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  in  1799. 

5  Love  and  Madness  :  This  monody  was  written  in  1795,  and 
seems  to  have  been  revised  in  the  following  year.  The  draft 
of  1796  appears  in  Beattie's  Life,  vol.  i.  p.  166,  with  many  small 
variations.  I  have  adopted  "o'er"  for  "on"  in  line  n  from 
the  end,  where  the  alteration  may  be  a  mere  misprint.  The 
poem  was  suggested  by  a  criminal  trial  which  fired  young 
Campbell's  sympathetic  imagination.  It  was  published  with 
The  Pleasures  of  Hope  in  1799. 

9   The   Wounded  Hussar:   This  also  was  amongst  the  pieces 

appended  to  the  first  edition  of  The  Pleasures  of  Hope. 
10  Gilderoy:   First   published   with    The  Pleasures  of  Hope  in 

1799.     The  Harper— ditto. 

13  The  Pleasures  of  Hope :  The  alterations  made  in  the  poem 
before  publication  are  mentioned  in  Beattie's  Life,  \.  251. 
They  are  more  fully  given  in  some  MS.  notes  in  my  possession 
by  one  to  whom  the  autograph  copy  of  the  draft  had  been 
shown  in  June  1848  by  Mr.  George  Farquhar  Graham  (for 

247 


248  NOTES 

PAGE 

13  whom  see  Diet.  Nat.  Biog.).  To  his  information  the  follow- 
ing additional  statement  in  the  same  MS.  is  probably  due  : — 

"  This  seems  to  be  the  first  draft  of  the  poem  as  a  continuous 
entire  poem.  It  was  originally  in  detached  portions  under 
different  titles — such  as  The  Sailor,  The  Emigrant,  The 
Mother  and  Child,  etc.  But,  at  Dr.  Anderson's  suggestion, 
all  these  were  woven  into  a  continuous  poem.  .  .  .  After 
The  Pleasures  of  Hope  was  published,  the  author's  mother 
was  often  heard  to  say,  '  I  mind  when  our  Tarn's  book  was 
a  wee  bit  poemie.'  " 

The  readings  of  the  first  edition  quoted  below  were  obtained 
for  me  by  my  late  lamented  friend  John  Scott,  Esq.,  of  Halks- 
hill,  who  in  1901  collated  the  copy  of  ed.  1799  at  the 
Advocates'  Library,  Edinburgh,  with  the  edition  of  1830. 

16  1.  i.  "etherial":  "aerial,"  ed.  1799. 

17  1.  58.  "giant  of  the  western  star"  :  The  mountain,  imagined 

as  visible  from  the  Atlantic,  is  thought  of  as  crowned  with 
the  evening  star,  rather  than  with  the  fire  of  a  volcano. 

„  1.  66.  "  Oonalaska's  shore  ":  The  name  Unalaska  is  given  in 
recent  maps  to  an  island  in  the  Aleutian  group  off  the 
Alaskan  promontory;  and  Gen.  Sir  C.  Wilson,  K.C.B., 
remembers  hearing  of  it  when  he  served  on  a  boundary  Com- 
mission in  1862. 

19  1.  120.  "  A  Briton  and  a  friend  "  :  Don  Patricio  Gedd,  a  Scotch 
physician  in  one  of  the  Spanish  settlements,  hospitably 
relieved  Byron  and  his  wretched  associates,  of  which  the 
Commodore  speaks  in  the  warmest  terms  of  gratitude  (C.). 

22  1.  212.  "latter":  "later,"  ed.  1799. 

,,   1.  214.  "purple":  "  radiant, "  ed.  1799. 

,,  1.  228.  "  her  slumbering  child  "  :  "  her  little  son,"  ed.  1799. 

2S  !•  325-  "Where  tigers  steal  along":  See  Introd,  p.  xxv.  In 
his  rooms  in  London  Campbell  had  a  spotted  "tiger-skin." 
American  Felidtf  are  the  Jaguar,  the  Puma,  the  Lynx,  and 
the  Catamount,  or  wild  cat.  The  puma,  or  cougar,  is  some- 
times called  the  American  lion,  although  it  is  more  allied  to 
the  leopard.  It  is  called  "cougouar"  by  the  French,  and 
"panther"  by  the  Anglo-American  hunters  of  the  United 
States.  The  panther  was  formerly  found  in  all  except  the 
coldest  parts  of  America,  but  is  now  rare  in  North  America, 
having  been  expelled  by  man.  I  owe  this  information  to  my 
friend  Mr.  J.  George  Rapelje.  See  Gertrude  of  Wyoming, 


NOTES  249 

PAGE 

25  Pt.  I.  st.  xvii.  and  Pt.  III.  st.  xiv.  with  C.'s  note  as  below. 
By  the  time  when  he  had  composed  Gertrude,  he  knew  better 
than  in  writing  The  Pleasures  of  Hope. 

25  '•  338-  "  w''d  Obi  flies " :  Among  the  Negroes  of  the  West 
Indies  Obi  or  Obiah  is  the  name  of  a  magical  power  which  is 
believed  by  them  to  affect  the  object  of  its  malignity  with 
dismal  calamities  (C.). 

32  1.  582.  "  the   alarmed   world "  :    "  the   prostrate    world,"    ed. 

1799. 

33  1.  600.  "  Shall  Seriswattee,  etc. "  :  Camdeo  is  the  god  of  love 

in  the  mythology  of  the  Hindos.     Ganesa  and  Seriswattee 
correspond  to  the  Pagan  deities  Janus  and  Minerva  (C.). 

Pt.  II.  in  the  copy  collated  by  Mr.  Scott  has  only  326  lines, 
the  poem  having  been  largely  augmented  in  a  second  issue 
which  was  printed  some  months  afterwards.  See  Beattie's 
Life,  i.  266. 

34  1.  12.  "  Torneo's  hoary  brow ";   A  mountain   in   the   north   of 

Scandinavia. 

38  1.  747.  "Thy  woes,  Arion  "  :  See  Falconer's  Shipwreck,  Canto 

iii.  (C.). 
38  1.  760.  "The  robber  Moor":   See   Schiller's   tragedy  of   The 

Robbers,  Scene  v.  (C.). 

40  1.  822.  "And  part,  like  Ajut "  :   See  the  history  of  Ajut  and 

Anningait  in  The  Rambler  (C.). 

41  11.  869,  870.  "The  moon-eyed  herald  of  Dismay  "  :  The  allusion 

suggests  some  drawing  (of  a  bale-star)  in  the  manner  of  Blake. 

45  11.  ion  ff.  :  This  is  the  episode  so  much  admired  by  Mme.  de 
Stael. 

51  Caroline:  The  poet  himself  has  dated  Caroline  "Edinburgh, 
1801 "  :  i.e.  the  poem  was  completed  after  the  publication  of 
The  Pleasures  of  Hope.  This  is  confirmed  by  the  style, 
which  is  more  highly  wrought  than  that  of  the  earlier  poems. 
But  it  does  not  dispose  of  the  doubt  whether  Caroline  Fraser, 
the  Minister's  daughter  of  Inveraray,  or  a  certain  Caroline 
Pye  was 

"  The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing." 

The  question  is  whether  the  two  pieces  were  composed  at 
one  heat,  or  whether,   in  Wordsworth's  phrase,  Part  II.  at 


250  NOTES 

PAGE 

51    all    events    "took    its    origin    from   emotion   recollected   in 

tranquillity." 
55    Ode  to  Winter,  third  st.,  1.  3  from  the  end  :  The  editions 

read  "  lead,"  corrected  to  "  lend  "  by  Mr.  W.  T.  Webb  in  his 

Selections  from  Campbell,  Macmillan,  1902. 
,,   st.  iv.  1.  6.  "On  yonder  tented  shores"  :  The  ode  was  written 

in  Germany  in  time  of  war. 
59  On  leaving  a  Scene  in  Bavaria,  last  line  of  st.  x.  :   "  The 

friendless" — "Misfortune"  in  ed.  1830,  with  "her"  in  what 

follows. 
63  A   Scene  in  Argyllshire:    "the  home  of  my   forefathers:" 

Kirnan,  Kilmichael-Glassary,  Argyleshire. 

66  Ye  Mariners'.  Sts.  i.,  ii.,  iii.,  "the  stoimy  winds  do  blow" 

— "the  stormy  tempests  blow,"  edd.  1809,  1830. 

67  st.  iii.  "  o'er  the  mountain-waves  :"  "on  the  mountain-waves," 

ed.  1809. 

69  Lochiel:   " 'Tis   thine,    oh   Glenullin!"  —  '"Tis    the  barb   of 

Glenullin,"  ed.  1809. 
„   1.  n.  "Glenullin":   He  was  evidently  one  of  the  chiefs  who 

fell  at  Culloden,  but  has  not  been  identified. 
.,   I.  22.  "  Lochiel  "  :  so  printed,  with  diaeresis,  here  and  elsewhere 

in  the  poem  in  ed.  1809. 

70  1.  9.  "all  dreadfully  "  :  "all  fearfully,"  ed.  1809. 

,,  11.  ^1-13. — "  Oh,  crested  Lochiel,  .  .  .  return  "  :  "  Oh,  chieftain, 
whose  tow'r  on  the  mountain  shall  burn,  Return  to  thy 
dwelling,  all  lonely  return,"  ed.  1809. 

,,   1.  23.  "  Woe  to  his  cause  "  :  "  Woe  to  their  cause,"  ed.  1809. 

,,   1.  24.  "Albin":  Scotland,  particularly  the  Highlands  (C.). 

,,   1.  26.  "  Clanronald  "  :  "Clanranald,"  edd.  1809,  180. 

71  1.  5.  "  Lo  !  anointed  "  :  "  Anointed,"  ed.  1809. 

„  1.  n.  "  The  iron-bound  prisoner"  :  From  a  letter  of  Lord  Minto's 
in  lieattie's  Life  of  Campbell,  vol.  i.  p.  410,  it  appears  that 
this  refers  to  Lochiel's  brother,  Dr.  Archibald  Cameron,  who, 
as  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  informs  me,  was  betrayed  by  two  of  his 
clansmen  at  the  time  of  the  Elibank  Plot — some  years  after 
the  death  of  Lochiel— and  was  hanged  "on  the  old  score  of 
I745-" 

..  1.  12.  "  For  the  red  eye  of  battle"  :  "  When  the  red  eye,"  ed. 
1809. 


NOTES  251 

I'AGE 

71  1.  17.  "Oh!  mercy,  dispel:  "  Let  mercy  dispel,"  ed.  1809. 
,,  1.25.  "For    never    shall    Albin    .    .    .    surf-beaten    shore": 

Omitted  in  ed.  1809. 
,,  11.  31-33.  "Shall  victor  .  .  .  fame"— 

"  Shall  victor  exult  in  the  battle's  acclaim, — 
Or  look  to  yon  heaven,  from  the  deathbed  of  fame," 

ed.  1809. 

73  Lord  Ulliris  Daughter:  "  Lochgyle "  :  —  not  Loch  Goil, 
the  branch  of  Loch  Long,  familiar  to  tourists,  but  Loch 
na  Ghial  (pron.  "  Keal "),  the  deep  inlet  on  the  west  coast  of 
Mull  in  which  the  island  of  Ulva  is  situated. 

76  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,  st.  iii. 

" '  Hearts  of  oak  ! '  our  captains  cried  "  :  So,  not  "captain,"  in 
edd.  1809,  1830,  and  1837. 

77  st.  vii.  "  By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep"  :  Compare  Hamlet, 

i.  iv. 

"What  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood,  my  Lord, 
Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  cliff 
That  beetles  o'er  his  base  into  the  sea." 

Though  Campbell  had  been  in  Denmark,  he  had  not  seen 
Elsinore. 

,,  st.  viii.  "With  the  gallant  good  Riou"  :  Captain  Riou,  justly 
styled  "  the  gallant  and  the  good"  by  Lord  Nelson  when  he 
wrote  his  despatches  (C.). 

80.  1.  ii.  Alluding  to  the  tradition  that  the  art  arose  from  a  young 
Corinthian  female  tracing  the  shadow  of  her  lover's  profile 
on  the  wall  as  he  lay  asleep  (C.). 

83  Gertrude  of  Wyoming — A  Pennsylvanian  Tale :  So  on  title- 
page  of  ed.  1809  (in  the  half-title  "  Or  the  Pensylvanian  (sic) 
cottage  ").  Campbell's  Wyoming  is  not  to  be  confused  with 
the  State  of  that  name.  It  is  a  place  in  Pennsylvania  in 
the  valley  of  the  Susquehanna,  still  much  admired  for  its 
romantic  beauty. 

86  Pt.  i.  st.  v.  "  Thy  pellochs  "  :  The  Gaelic  appellation  for  the 
porpoise  (C.). 

86  Pt.  i.  st.  v. — "  Corbrechtan  "  :  The  great  whirlpool  of  the 
Western  Hebrides  (C). 

90  Pt.  i.  st.  xvi.  "  Areouski"  :  The  (Red)  Indian  god  of  war  (C.). 

q8  Pt.  ii.   St.   xii.  "  And   nought  within  the   grove   was   seen   or 


252  NOTES 

PAGE 

98  heard  "  :  The  editions,  clearly  by  a  printer's  error,  give  "  heard 
or  seen."  In  ed.  1809  the  lines  are : — 

"  For  save  her  presence,  scarce  an  ear  had  heard 
The  stock-dove  plaining  thro'  its  gloom  profound." 

Pt.  iii.  st.  xiv.  "  Nor  cougar's  crouch  "  :  Cougur,  the  American 
tiger  (C). 

108  Pt.  iii.  st.  xvi.  "  The  Monster  Brandt "  :  Campbell  was  after- 
wards persuaded  that  this  Indian  (Mohawk)  chief  had  been 
maligned,  and  begged  his  readers  to  consider  Brandt  in  the 
poem  as  "  a  pure  and  declared  character  of  fiction  "  (ed.  1830, 
note). 

119  O'Connor's  Child:  Maria  Edgeworth  wrote  in  a  letter  to  a 
friend  in  April  1811,  "Have  you  seen  Campbell's  poem  of 
O'Connor's  Child?  In  many  parts  I  think  it  is  superior  to 
Scott";  and  again,  some  days  later,  "Do  get  O'Connors 
Child — Campbell's  beautiful  poem." 

119  St.  i.  "Innisfail":  Ireland  (C.).  "Nofear" — so  ed.  1830;  "no 
fears  "  in  1810?  and  later  editions.  a 

119  st.  i.  "The  lovely  pale  O'Connor's  Child,"  ed.  1810. 

120  st.  ii.  "her  brother's  kerne,"  ed.  1810. 

"The  lovely  pale  O'Connor's  child,"  ed.  1810. 

120  st.  iii.  "  Plac'd  in  the  foxglove,"  edd.  1810,  1830,  1837. 

121  st.  iv.  "those  are  shadows,"  edd.  1810,  1830,  1837. 

,,  st.  iv.  "  Moral  "  :  A  drink  made  of  the  juice  of  mulberry  mixed 
with  honey  (C.). 

122  st.  v.  "bear,"  edd.  1830,  1837;  "bare,"  ed.   1810;  "bore"  in 

later  edd. 

123  st.  viii.  "  Clarshech  "  :  The  harp  (C.). 

124  st.  x.  "Aye  me  !  it  was,"  ed.  1810. 

126  st.  xiii.  "Oh  stranger!"  ed.  1810. 

127  st.  xiv.  "  Athunree."    The  battle  fought  in  1314,  which  decided 

the  fate  of  Ireland  (C.). 

„  st.  xv.  "Thrice  ten  Innisfallian  clans,"  ed.  1810 :  id.  two  lines 
at  end  of  stanza — 

"  Hut  once  again  in  heav'n  the  bands 

Of  thunder  spirits  clapt  their  hands." 
ed.  1810. 

143  Hallowed Ground,  st.  vi.  from  end:  "That  man  can  bless," 
so  edd.  1830  and  1837  ;  later  editions  "men." 


NOTES  253 

PAGE 

148  Men  of  England,  st.  iii.  "If  the  freedom" — "Patriotism" 
for  "freedom"  ed.  1830. 

156  1.  10.  Reullura:  "  Lochlin  " — Denmark  (C.). 

157  1.  10.  "back  on  his  shoulder":   so  ed.    1830;   later  editions, 

"o'er." 

„  1.  19.  "Then  uprose":  so  edd.  1830  and  1837;  later  editions 
"up  rose." 

158  1.  5.  " millstone  crushes ":  so  ed.  1830;  later  edd.  "millstones 

crush. " 

161  Earl  March:  "  And  he  look'd  up":  her  love  look'd  up,"  ed. 
1830. 

194  Ode  to  the  Germans:  "Broad  Stone  of  Honour" — Ehren- 
Breitstein  (C.). 

203  Ode  to  t/ie  Memory  of  Burns :  "  Edward  that  died  at  Water- 
loo" :  Major  Edward  Hodge  of  the  7th  Hussars,  who  fell  at 
the  head  of  his  squadron  in  the  attack  of  the  Polish  Lancers  (C.). 

208  Lines  on  a  Seal:  "poets'  fancies,"  so  ed.    1843;   "poet's" 

ed.  1830  and  Aldine  edition. 

209  1.  17.  "That  won  the  Lady  of  the  West"  :  A  Norman  leader 

in  the  service  of  the  King  of  Scotland  married  the  heiress  of 
Lochow,  and  from  him  the  Campbells  are  sprung  (C.). 

210  To    Edward   Lytton  Buhver :    Published    in  ed.   1830,   but 

omitted — for  obvious  reasons — in  later  editions. 
215  My  mind  is  my  kingdom :  This  song  was  copied  for  me  from 

ed.  1810  by  Mr.  F.  G.  Kenyon.     It  was  never  reprinted. 
,,    Drink  Ye  to  Her:  Last  two  lines — "  But  drink  to  her  ...  as 

she  would  love  to  hear  "  : — "  to  them  " — "  as  they,"  ed.  1830. 
224  Napoleon   and  the  British   Sailor:    I    have  restored   some 

readings  from  a  MS.  facsimile  of  a  draft  sent  by  the  poet  to 

his  sister  Mary. 

235  Song  of  the  Emigrants :  Bishop  Selwyn  sailed  to  New  Zeal- 

and in  1841. 

236  Moonlight:  "that  makes";   so  in  the  poet's  original  draft; 

"that  would  make,"  edd.  contra  metrum. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


PAGE 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound 73 

Adieu  the  woods  and  waters'  side       ......  56 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom       .....  137 

Alone  to  the  banks  of  the  dark-rolling  Danube  ....  9 

And  call  they  this  Improvement? — to  have  changed          .         .  207 

An  original  something,  fair  maid,  you  would  win  me         .         .  239 

At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow    .         .         .         .  16 

At  the  silence  of  twilight's  contemplative  hour  ....  63 

A  valley  from  the  river  shore  withdrawn  (Part  II.)  .         .         .  94 

Brave  men  who  at  the  Trocadero  fell          .....  190 

Can  restlessness  reach  the  cold  sepulchred  head  ?      .         .         .189 

Come,  maids  and  matrons,  to  caress  ......  227 

Dear  girl,  be  once  again  my  theme     .         .         .         .         .         .241 

Drink  ye  to  her  that  each  loves  best 215 

Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child 160 

England  hails  thee  with  emotion        ......  242 

Fall'n  as  he  is,  this  king  of  birds  still  seems       ....  183 

Gem  of  the  crimson-colour'd  Even  (Part  II.)     ....  52 

Hadst  thou  a  genius  on  thy  peak        ......  227 

Hail  to  thy  face  and  odours,  glorious  Sea  !         .         .         .         .179 

Hark  !  from  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower     ....  5 

Hearts  of  oak  that  have  bravely  deliver'd  the  brave  .         .         .  192 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 219 

How  glorious  fall  the  valiant,  sword  in  hand     ....  173 

I  had  a  heart  that  doted  once  in  passion's  boundless  pain          .  146 

255 


256  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PACE 

I  hold  it  a  religious  duty 239 

I'll  bid  the  hyacinth  to  blow 51 

I  love  contemplating — apart 224 

In  joyous  youth,  what  soul  hath  never  known  (Part  II.)  .         •  34 

Inspiring  and  romantic  Switzer's  land 238 

In  the  deep  blue  of  eve 149 

Light  rued  false  Ferdinand  to  leave  a  lovely  maid  forlorn         .  169 

Lochiel,  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day 69 

Long  shall  thou  flourish,  Windsor  !  bodying  forth    .        .         .  238 

Margaret's  beauteous — Grecian  arts 220 

Men  of  England  !  who  inherit    .         .         .         .         .         .         .147 

My  heart  is  with  you,  Bulwer,  and  pourtrays  ....  210 

My  mind  is  my  kingdom,  but  if  thou  wilt  deign         .         .         .  215 

My  wealth's  a  burly  spear  and  brand 174 

O  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale  ....  72 

O  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me  ! 62 

O  Love  !  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this 103 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North .         -75 

O  haggard  queen  I  to  Athens  dost  thou  guide  ....  4 

Oh,  how  hard  it  is  to  find 216 

Oh!  once  the  harp  of  Innisfail 119 

Oh  !  scenes  of  my  childhood,  and  dear  to  my  heart  .         .         .  61 

O  thou  by  whose  expressive  art 80 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 67 

On  Susquehanna's  side,  fair  Wyoming  ! 85 

On  the  green  banks  of  Shannon,  when  Sheelah  was  nigh          .  8 

Our  bosoms  we'll  bare  for  the  glorious  strife      ....  78 

Our  bugles  sang  truce— for  the  night-cloud  had  lower'd    .         .  79 

Our  friendship's  not  a  stream  to  dry 244 

Platonic  friendship  at  your  years 218 

Pride  of  the  British  stage 204 

Since  there  is  magic  in  your  look 211 

So  all  this  gallant  blood  has  gush'd  in  vain  !      .         .        .        .  195 

Soul  of  the  Poet  !  whereso'er 201 

Star  of  the  morn  and  eve     ....                  ...  153 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee 134 

Steer,  helmsman,  till  you  steer  our  way 235 

Tell  me,  ye  bards,  whose  skill  sublime 3 

The  brave  Roland  !— the  brave  Roland  !—....  168 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  257 

PAGE 

The  deep  affections  of  the  breast 234 

The  ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded 161 

The  kiss  that  makes  a  maid's  cheek  flush  .....  236 

The  last,  the  fatal  hour  is  come           ......  10 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear  .         .         .         .         .         .211 

The  mountain  summits  sleep  :  glens,  cliffs,  and  caves       .         .  175 

The  Ritter  Bann  from  Hungary         ......  162 

The  spirit  of  Britannia        ........  194 

The  time  I  saw  thee,  Cora,  last          ......  223 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin  ....  64 

This  wax  returns  not  back  more  fair 208 

'Tis  not  the  loss  of  love's  assurance !^0 

To  Love  in  my  heart,  I  exclaim'd  t'other  morning    .         .         .  217 

Triumphal  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky 132 

"Twas  the  hour  when  rites  unholy      ......  150 

Type  of  the  Cherubim  above 232 

Was  man  e'er  doom'd  that  beauty  made 144 

Well  may  sleep  present  us  fictions 135 

What's  hallow'd  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod      ....  141 

When  first  the  fiery-mantled  sun 54 

When  Love  first  came  to  earth,  the  Spring        ....  217 

When  Napoleon  was  flying I46 

Withdraw  not  yet  those  lips  and  fingers 216 

Ye  field  flowers  !  the  gardens  eclipse  you,  'tis  true    .         .         .  131 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  ! 65 


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